THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 


THE   LABYRINTH 
OF  LIFE 

BY 

E.  A.  U.  VALENTINE 

AUTHOR  OF  "HECLA  SANDWITH  " 


NEW  YORK 

E  P  DUTTON  &  COMPANY 
31  West  Twenty-Third  Street 
1912 


All  Rights  Reserved 


TO 

MY  COUSINS 
EDWARD  AND  ELIZABETH  PHELPS 

THIS  BOOK 
IS  AFFECTIONATELY  DEDICATED 


2138779   * 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  I 

THE  QUEST 3 

BOOK  II 

THE  TEST 235 


BOOK  I.  THE  QUEST 


THE  LABYRINTH  OFLIFE 

Book  I:  The  Quest 

CHAPTER  I 

As  Harding  turned  into  the  Champs  Elyse"es,  he  felt, 
as  it  were,  the  exhilaration  of  a  convalescent  released 
from  a  sick-room.  It  was  a  bright  May  afternoon, 
and  the  embowered  thoroughfare,  in  all  the  glory  of 
its  fresh  greenness,  tingled  with  the  flood  of  passing 
vehicles,  the  steady  rhythm  broken  by  the  pretentious 
snort  of  motors,  the  jingle  of  bells,  and  the  presto  tune 
of  saddle  horses,  woven  together  into  a  medley  of 
sound  that  fell  on  the  young  man's  ears  like  a  paean  of 
the  world.  The  sidewalks  were  crowded  with  people 
afoot  or  occupying  bench  and  hired  chair.  It  seemed 
that  all  Paris  was  abroad  enjoying  the  sunshine  like 
ephemera  breaking  from  winter  cocoons.  In  the  rumour 
and  animation  of  the  scene  was  that  note  of  the 
pageantry  and  joy  of  living  which  the  French  metro- 
polis most  expresses  in  its  high-scaled  nervousness, 
and  which  at  the  same  time  excites  and  devitalizes  its 
inhabitants.  To  Harding  it  had  the  elating  effect  of 
novel  experience — this  Paris  in  first  flush  of  springtime, 
full  of  flooding  white  light  enveloping  middle  distances 
in  soft  iridescence  like  the  bloom  of  a  Tanagra  vase, 

B2 


4  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

that  made  the  horizon,  as  one  got  it,  guarded  by  the 
stately  Arc,  a  wonder  of  melting  purple.  It  was  all  of 
a  curious  sensitive  poetry  that  appealed  to  lately 
dormant  things  in  him ;  and  he  felt  it  lighten  his  mental 
languor  like  wine,  as  his  eye  caught  the  gamut  of  greens 
overhead,  the  beauty  of  the  chestnuts  opulently  loaded 
with  plumy  clusters,  and  then  returned  to  his  fellow 
promenaders,  whose  faces  wore  such  an  air  of  personal 
greeting,  as  though  springtime  created  a  general  bond. 

The  last  week  or  so  had  been  a  gradual  realization 
of  the  Paris  his  ignorance  had  pictured  in  advance 
and  that  he  had  almost  ceased  to  accept,  in  default  of 
a  favouring  season.  He  had  arrived,  for  the  first  time, 
the  previous  autumn,  after  the  poplars  by  the  river 
banks  had  dropped  premature  leaves,  and  there  had 
followed  a  particularly  disagreeable,  dragged-out 
winter,  the  humid  chill  of  which  had  searched  his  blood 
with  the  fine  insinuation  of  a  surgeon's  lancet.  His 
nature  was  acutely  barometrical,  and  it  clouded  sadly 
under  the  melancholy  of  overcast  skies  and  leaden  rain- 
fall. It  seemed  always  raining  here.  In  the  depression 
it  caused  him,  he  called  Paris  the  City  of  Dreadful 
Day.  Paris,  apparently,  was  always  wrapped  in  mists 
grey  as  the  legendary  ones  of  Ultima  Thule.  And  how 
brief  and  uncertain  the  pale  sun — a  viscid  glimmer 
quickly  lost  in  melancholy,  greedy  nights,  where  the 
blear  street  lamps  glowed  like  phosphorescent  eyes  of 
sea  monsters  behind  aquarium  panes. 

It  had  been  rather  dreary,  his  last  half-year  of  Paris, 
in  spite  of  the  friends  he  had  made,  the  attraction  of 


THE  QUEST  5 

art  galleries — for  he  was  fond  of  pictures — the  theatres, 
the  cafes.  He  had  often  resorted  to  the  last,  in  fits 
of  depression,  when  he  meant,  instead,  to  spend  the 
evening  in  work.  If  he  was  disappointed  in  the  climate 
of  Paris,  he  was  as  much  disappointed  with  what  Paris 
had  so  far  done  for  him  artistically.  He  had  expected 
marvels  from  merely  breathing  its  air.  He  had  meant 
it  to  be  an  escape  from  old  disheartening  conditions; 
it  was  to  have  been  the  goal  of  new,  serious  achieve- 
ments. Alas,  he  had  counted  too  much  on  foreign 
environment — too  much  on  that,  as  perhaps  he  had 
counted  too  little  on  himself,  on  the  hampering  effect 
of  a  temperament  easily  lowered  and  bent  aside  by 
mood  and  accident.  He  blamed  the  constant  slant  of 
dirty  rain  against  the  prospects  revealed  by  the 
Bohemian  quarter  on  the  Seine  where  he  had  taken 
lodgings.  He  had  told  himself,  when  he  found  this 
out-of-the-way  coign  with  the  balconied  windows 
and  its  near  glimpse  of  Notre  Dame,  that  the  lovely, 
neglected  site  should  typify  the  seriousness  of  his 
spiritual  vistas.  The  silhouette  of  the  Cathedral  that 
he  loved,  almost  casting  its  shadow  on  his  labours, 
was  it  not  meant  to  bless  and  inspire  ?  It  was  all  part 
of  the  dreamed-of  "  sea-change  "  of  soul  and  sense 
he  had  counted  on  in  crossing  the  ocean.  But  had 
there  been  any  redeeming  change  in  him?  Any  of 
that  happiness  of  a  nature  released,  warmed,  made  to 
feel  itself  and  its  best  powers,  the  happiness  over 
things  he  longed  for  and  always  secretly  doubted  the 
ability  to  attain,  which  had  made  him  eager  to  grasp 


6  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

the  staff  of  adventure,  to  wander,  shift  environment, 
live  .  .  .  and  he  told  himself  that  he  had  never  really 
lived,  only  "  existed  "  in  the  whilom  ambients.  It 
was  the  realization  that  he  was  still  his  old  self,  would 
probably  always  be  his  old  self,  which  heightened  the 
melancholy  that  had  oppressed  him  during  the  dull 
winter  just  passed.  But . . .  Spring  was  come,  and  surely 
one  could  trust  to  the  inspiration  it  sent  like  a  wave 
though  the  veins.  Spring  could  make  a  poet  of  any  one. 
Not  that  he  wanted  to  be  a  poet  any  more,  but,  in  a 
way,  it  meant  what  he  did  want. 

Harding  was  on  his  way  to  take  tea  with  Miss  Julia 
Vanderhurst,  whose  telegram,  blue  as  his  winter 
moods,  informed  him  of  her  arrival  in  Paris.  He  was 
fond  of  her,  in  a  way,  and  she  had  ladened  him  with 
unused  letters  of  introduction  to  people  in  Paris,  when 
he  sailed  from  New  York.  Her  invitation  for  four- 
thirty,  at  her  hotel,  was  an  excuse  for  his  idle  after- 
noon. He  knew  he  owed  her  the  courtesy,  and  the 
weather  encouraged  the  duty.  But  now  that  he  had 
left  his  lodgings,  was  abroad  in  the  eloquent  sunlight, 
he  felt  a  growing  disinclination  to  keep  his  appoint- 
ment. She  would,  he  knew,  put  awkward  questions 
to  him,  and  he  was  in  no  mood  to  account  for  himself — 
was  not  sure  that  he  could  account  for  himself  in  the 
kind  of  particulars  which  interested  her.  Besides,  her 
worldly  vivacities,  representing  effort  of  mental 
variance,  loomed  as  a  bore  when  he  wished  to  give 
himself  to  the  spirit  of  irresponsibility  filling  the  world. 
Moved  by  a  whim  to  wear  a  token  of  his  springlike 


THE  QUEST  7 

temper,  he  stopped  at  a  flowercart,  pushed  up  against  the 
side-walk,  and  picked  out  a  bunch  of  violets,  that  the 
vendor — a  hardy  cheeked  dame  of  the  Halles — fastened 
in  his  lapel  with  a  motherly  air  that  was  part  of  the 
general  feeling  of  kindness  animating  the  world. 

He  strolled  on,  savouring  the  bright  aspects  of  the 
parade.  Leaving  the  sidewalk,  after  a  while,  he  ex- 
plored the  shadier  retreats  of  its  neighbouring  par- 
terres, charming  with  the  taste  of  Parisian  gardening, 
where  flamed  flowering  rhododendrons — masses  of 
pink  and  mauve.  Birds  piped  their  pastorals,  indifferent 
to  the  proximity  of  human  life.  A  butterfly  flitted 
across  his  path  .  .  .  soul  of  Parisian  coquette  returned 
to  earth  ?  How  everybody  seemed  to  have  yielded  to 
the  spell  of  weather!  Harding  felt  the  appeal  of  life 
mount  within  him.  For  once  he  had  the  sense  of  being 
an  attuned  instrument,  adjusted  to  the  casual,  joyous 
touch  of  things.  It  was  good  to  be  young  still,  to 
have  delusive  dreams,  to  fancy  that  there  was  before 
him  a  future  worth  anticipating. 

Crossing  the  avenue,  by  aid  of  its  little  oases,  he 
gained  the  hotel  at  which  Miss  Vanderhurst  was 
staying.  He  directed  his  steps  to  the  tea  room.  A 
throng  of  over-dressed  worldlings  were  pouring  into 
the  great  glass-domed  corridor,  and  securing  the 
innumerable  small  tables  that  attendants,  in  scarlet 
waistcoats  and  black  satin  shorts,  pushed  about  to 
suit  the  caprice  of  patrons.  The  place  was  noisy  as 
a  rookery.  Throaty  voices  of  British  tourists  blent 
with  the  American  upper  register,  sharp  as  the  twang 


8  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

of  a  banjo,  the  general  polyglot  clamour  competing 
with  the  music  of  a  Neapolitan  band.  The  atmo- 
sphere, painfully  at  contrast  with  the  outside  air, 
was  stale  with  the  smell  of  hothouse  flowers,  cigarette 
smoke  and  perfumes  of  newest,  most  aggressive 
vogue. 

Harding  hesitated,  confronting  the  rococo  splendours 
and  uproar  of  this  traveller's  paradise,  which  had 
unsuccessfully  aimed  at  rivalling  certain  fashionable 
rendezvous  of  Paris,  and  had  accepted  its  vogue 
among  the  vulgar.  Its  catch-all  magnificence,  that 
had  recently  cropped  up,  mushroom  fashion,  to  remind 
one  of  the  determined  spread  of  bad  taste,  was  a  side 
of  Paris  he  hated.  He  resented  it,  as  he  resented  with 
the  artist's  rebellion,  the  unmeaning  display  of  New 
York  that  scoffed  at  modest  means  and  simple  living. 
It  was  the  oppression  of  such  conditions  that,  among 
other  things,  he  had  sought  to  escape  in  coming  to 
Europe  where,  supposedly,  a  gross  and  flaunting 
opulence  fell  before  the  disdain  of  centuried  culture. 
His  features  only  recaptured  their  conventional  lines 
as,  after  some  moments,  he  caught  sight  of  Miss 
Vanderhurst's  signalling  fan. 

The  spinster  welcomed  him  with  a  smile  which  had 
the  reputation  of  putting  the  most  awkward  at  ease. 
One  of  her  definite  traits  was  her  enthusiasm  for 
friends,  of  which  she  had  a  countless  number,  scattered 
over  the  world,  for  she  travelled  untiringly;  and  it  was 
instinctive  with  her  to  make  much  of  every  small 
merit  possessed  by  people  with  whom  she  came  in 


THE  QUEST  9 

contact.  Harding  had  known  her  first  in  New  York, 
where  they  had  a  common  milieu  in  a  set  of  non- 
serious  Bohemians,  who  played  at  being  interested  in 
literature  as  countenanced  by  the  best  American 
magazines.  The  intimacy,  partly  accidental,  ripened 
on  the  elderly  woman's  part  into  a  flattering  concern 
for  Julian  Harding' s  work  and  unformulated  future. 
The  literary  calling  had  for  her  a  romantic  appeal, 
owing,  no  doubt,  to  her  ignorance  of  its  prosaic  side; 
and  Harding  impressed  her,  without  intention,  as  a 
promising  young  man  it  would  eventually  be  a  credit 
to  know.  He  had  published  some  verses  and  was 
supposed  to  have  achieved  success  among  people 
content  with  surface  signs  of  prosperity.  And  Miss 
Vanderhurst  had  accordingly  made  herself  his  cham- 
pion, spreading  among  her  world  sanguine  views  of 
his  unfolding  talents. 

"  You  see  how  selfish  I  am,"  she  said,  when  he  had 
made  his  way  to  her  side,  "  asking  you  here  alone  like 
this.  But  I  wanted  a  chance  for  a  real  talk,  to  hear  all 
about  your  stay  in  Paris.  This  is  rather  a  nice  place, 
don't  you  think,  for  tea  .  .  .  such  amusing,  incredible 
people.  It  quite  reminds  me  of  the  Waldorf-Astoria." 

"  Yes,  entirely  too  much,"  he  returned  in  the 
bantering  manner  he  adopted  when  with  people  like 
Miss  Vanderhurst.  It  pleased  his  vanity  that  such 
contact,  for  which  he  had  no  special  aptitude,  created 
in  him  a  kind  of  verbal  effervescence  like  tisane — one 
could  hardly  call  it  champagne  sparkle.  "  It's  what 
I  contend.  Americans  only  come  to  Europe  to  find 


io  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

their  civilization  translated  into  foreign  languages. 
The  idea  of  you,  Miss  Vanderhurst  " — it  was  a  liberty 
his  long  acquaintance  allowed — "  caring  for  such 
Ollendorf  French  as  this.  There's  not  a  Parisian 
here.  .  .  .  It's  a  crowd  made  up  of  our  countrymen, 
rastaquoeres,  people  from  heaven  knows  where.  It 
may  be  all  very  well  for  others — like  myself — who 
haven't  exhausted  their  naivete.  But  for  you,  who 
knows  Europe  so  enviably  .  .  .  where,  I  demand,  is  your 
excuse  for  your  taste  in  hotels  ?  "  And  he  regarded  her 
challengingly. 

She  listened  indulgently  to  his  gay  tirade,  her  thin 
fingers,  rich  with  rose  diamonds,  busying  themselves 
with  the  tea  service  an  attendant,  with  haughty 
assiduity,  placed  on  the  table.  She  was  an  effective 
old  maid,  with  her  beautifully  arranged  grey  hair, 
that  had  the  tone  of  unpolished  silver,  and  her  com- 
plexion, which  though  crumpled,  had  a  touch  of 
pleasant  pink  that  time  was  unable  to  banish.  Her 
kindness,  indeed,  gave  her  personality  almost  a  physical 
bloom.  Travel,  much  familiarity  with  people  and 
things,  had  supplemented  the  somewhat  rudimentary 
education  of  her  period.  She  read  the  best  books, 
took  in  the  reviews,  and  could  talk  resourcefully, 
expressing  enough  borrowed  opinions  to  serve  her  well 
in  whatever  world  her  insatiable  love  of  society  carried 
her.  Harding  sometimes  found  her  really  entertaining 
through  little  flashes  of  unexpectedness  in  her  worldly 
comments. 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Harding,"  she  returned  dryly,  as  she 


THE  QUEST  n 

passed  him  his  cup,  "  when  you've  arrived  at  years 
of  indiscretion,  like  me,  you  won't  bother  about 
rastaquoeres  and  the  other  things  you  object  to 
round  us.  Coming  abroad,  in  the  sense  of  half  a  century 
ago — as  though  it  were  a  pilgrimage  to  a  shrine — is 
obsolete,  you  know,  except  with  school  mistresses, 
stereopticon  lecturers — and  dreamers  like  yourself.  I 
don't  take  my  Europe  so  seriously.  I  travel  for  change 
and  comfort.  All  Americans  adore  their  ease,  and  I'm 
a  thorough  American,  even  if  I  spend  half  my  time 
away  from  my  own  land.  Perhaps  that  is  the  reason 
Europe  is  a  school  of  patriotism.  When  I  select  a  hotel 
it's  to  be  amused;  and  noise  and  movement  please  me. 
It  picks  up  my  system  like  an  electric  shock,  does  me 
good  generally.  That's  why  I  came  here.  It's  always 
so  delightfully  crowded.  Then,"  she  added,  with  a 
smile  that  was  meant  to  be  humorous,  "  the  waiters 
don't  have  to  be  told  to  serve  ice-water." 

She  leaned  back,  and  unsheathing  her  gold  lorgn- 
ette, applied  them  to  her  shrewd  eyes. 

"  Tell  me,"  she  demanded,  "  what  half  these  people 
do  when  they're  not  drinking  bad  tea  and  drowning 
the  music  by  their  gabble —  Or  rather,  what  are  they  ?  " 

"  Don't  ask  me  that,"  he  said,  yielding  to  youthful 
affectation  and  a  love  of  phrase  making.  "  It  always 
seems  easier  to  say  what  people  aren't  than  what  they 
are.  They  belong  to  the  genus  homo;  and  beyond 
that  it  is  a  waste  of  time  to  speculate.  I  doubt  if  half 
know  the  secret  of  their  own  being.  One  may  infer, 
however,  that  the  women  are  mostly  possessed  by  a 


12  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

passion  to  pervert  their  natural  looks.  Every  blonde 
appears  to  be  an  evolved  brunette  as  every  brunette 
an  ex-blonde.  Are  they,  after  all,  more  than  hair- 
dressers' blocks?  If  you'd  lift  off  their  heads  you'd 
probably  find  their  breasts  stuffed  with  candied  violets 
like  Easter  novelties  in  confectioners'  windows.  I 
wonder  if  anything  about  them  is  human — their 
laughter,  even.  It  sounds  like  a  sort  of  polite  hic- 
cough— mere  mechanical  emissions  of  sound,  as  though 
a  dentist  had  been  administering  gas  before  extracting 
a  tooth.  Heine  would  say  they  had  metronomes  under 
their  corsets,  in  lieu  of  hearts." 

She  smiled,  finding  him  rather  amusing.  "  I  don't 
know  about  the  metronomes,"  she  objected,  meeting 
his  mood.  "  I  question  whether  there's  room  for  any- 
thing under  those  French  corsets — even  for  the  women 
themselves.  They  do  seem  unnecessarily  artificial, 
with  their  bleach  and  rouge.  It  goes  to  prove  how 
times  have  changed  since  I  was  a  girl.  Nowadays  it's 
almost  immodest  to  appear  in  public  with  nothing  on 
one's  face  but  what  nature  put  there.  Of  course  people 
in  society  used  to  paint,  but  they  did  it  with  no 
intention  of  deceiving.  It  was  the  line  they  drew 
between  themselves  and — well,  other  people.  The 
demimondaine  sets  the  fashion  now.  There's  nothing  so 
democratic  as  the  toilette.  Doucet  and  Paquin,  they 
are  the  great  levellers;  ladies  go  there  to  look  what 
they  aren't,  as  others  go  to  pretend  to  be  what  they'd 
like  to  be,  as  one  so  often  hears  it  said.  I'm  getting  old, 
but  I've  no  desire  to  bury  my  bones  in  a  reddened- 


THE  QUEST  13 

and-whited  sepulchre  like  people  here."  She  said  it 
with  the  little  air  of  one  knowing  that  nature  makes 
all  that  superfluous. 

He  was  lighting  a  cigarette — a  Nubian,  the  clou 
of  the  place,  with  a  dazzling  display  of  primitive  teeth, 
had  given  his  assistance  to  that  ceremony.  It  was  part 
of  Harding' s  protest  regarding  the  place  that  this 
chocolate-visaged  person  so  enchanted  his  country- 
men— "  and  what,"  he  asked,  "  have  you  been  doing 
with  yourself  since  you  came  here  ?  " 

"  I  ?  "  She  smiled  again,  for  she  never  forgot  to  be 
charming.  "  Nothing,  as  yet,  except  standing  all  day, 
with  the  patience  of  a  pillared  saint,  at  Amy  Linker's. 
What  woman  can  endure  in  martyrdom  to  these  Paris 
fitters !  How  do  we  ever  survive  it,  do  you  know  ?  " 
And  she  turned  a  face  of  comical  appeal  on  him. 

Some  experience  in  social  compliment  made  him 
ready.  "  I  suppose,"  he  said,  "  it's  the  survival  of  the 
truly  fitted,  to  apply  the  Darwinian  theory  to  dress- 
making— that  fortunate  class  to  which  you  belong." 
And  he  indicated  by  a  glance  of  vague  appreciation  his 
hostess's  attire.  It  was  one  of  Miss  Vanderhurst's  dis- 
cretions that  she  wore  only  what  became  her  years 
and  personality. 

"  There,"  she  returned,  with  a  flattered  laugh, 
"  make  fun  of  us  poor  females  and  our  efforts  to  look 
our  best.  I  suppose  you  hold  us  all  up  to  ridicule  in 
your  book,  don't  you?  And  what,  may  I  ask,  has 
become  of  the  magnum  opus  ?  You  know,  I  have  had  a 
long-standing  order  for  it  at  the  book-seller's." 


14  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

Harding  stifled  a  sigh  at  the  inevitable  query.  It 
was  one  he  had  learned  to  dread.  "  But,"  he  pro- 
tested, "  I've  scarcely  begun  my  book.  It  takes 
time  to  write  anything  worth  while.  There  is  the 
equation  of  temperament — worn  phrase  that  it  is — 
to  consider.  One  isn't  a  machine,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  there  is  that  to  consider,  as  you 
say,"  she  allowed  dubiously.  "  Temperament  is 
something  all  artists  claim — though  just  what  they 
mean  by  it  rather  puzzles  me.  It's  such  a  vague- 
sounding  thing — a  kind  of  unrest,  I  suppose  one  should 
say,  that  keeps  them  from  work  at  the  time.  .  .  .  Yet, 
after  all,  does  it  differ  from  other  people's  moods, 
the  ups  and  downs  from  which  we  suffer,  and  in  spite 
of  which  we  manage  somehow  to  do  what's  expected 
of  us?  That's  what  has  never  been  clear  to  me." 
And  she  assumed  a  comely  air  of  half  combativeness, 
not  rare  with  people  who,  convinced  of  the  indolence 
of  the  artist  class,  feel  missioned  to  administer  a 
spoonful  of  reproof  as  occasion  offers. 

He  shrugged.  "  You  know,  the  Lord  has  made  us 
what  we  are — what  can  we  do  as  to  temperament  or 
anything  else  ?  " 

She  regarded  him  with  that  pleasant  light  air  of  one 
to  whom  nothing  has  been  particularly  serious  in 
life. 

"  If  your  temperament  troubles,"  she  replied, 
"  Why  don't  you  consult  my  doctor  ?  He's  such  a  nice 
man,  and  it's  wonderful  the  way  he  builds  one  up." 

"  Ah,"  he  retorted,  half  moved  to  earnestness  by 


THE  QUEST  15 

the  sacred  things  she  touched  on.  "  I  see.  You  regard 
'  temperament,'  as  only  a  kind  of  spring  fever  of  the 
soul.  Isn't  that  so?  It's  quite  typically  American  of 
you,  to  think  it.  It's  because  there  are  millions  of  other 
Americans  who  back  you  up  that  artists — to  use  the 
grand  phrase — either  perish  among  us,  through  sheer 
inanition  and  misunderstood  purpose,  or  come  to 
Europe,  where  they  find  the  atmosphere  of  com- 
prehension which  helps  their  work.  American  contempt 
for  leisure  of  mind  and  body  is  one  reason  why  there 
is  so  little  art  at  home.  They  ask  us  to  make  bricks 
without  straw — and  consequently  we  feel  it  to  be  a 
land  of  bondage  and  come  to  Europe  as  to  Canaan. 
Besides,  America  is  too  much  concerned  with  the 
Beauty  of  Holiness  to  remember  the  holiness  of  beauty. 
How  can  one  expect  abstract  art  to  be  respected 
there?" 

"  But  you  shouldn't  feel  that  way,"  she  protested, 
with  patriotism.  "  America  was  where  you  were  born, 
where  you  expect  to  get  things.  You  say  it  discourages 
art,  yet  it's  where  you  mean  to  print  your  books  and 
find  your  public." 

He  was  in  the  grasp  of  the  gloom  that  came  to  him 
with  her  protest.  "  That's  true  enough,"  he  acknow- 
ledged. "  But  there's  no  inconsistency  in  the  fact. 
The  desire  to  live  by  what  means  we  may  is  instinctive, 
Miss  Vanderhurst.  Everybody  tries  to  elude  the  mill- 
stones. Some  sublime  individuals  hold  it  our  duty  to 
be  ground  between  them  .  .  .  but  I  don't  know  that  I 
agree.  There's  a  class  of  people  who  are  not  really 


16  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

qualified  for  life  under  present  conditions.  It's  not 
their  fault.  They  didn't  fix  their  century,  choose 
their  type.  The  world  calls  them  the  '  failures.' 
Whereas,  the  truth  is,  perhaps,  it's  the  reason  for 
their  existence  that  has  failed." 

He  spoke  with  attempted  lightness,  conscious  of  the 
heresy  of  such  views,  but  Miss  Vanderhurst  scarce 
heeded.  She  was  still  full  of  the  enormity  of  his  prior 
declarations. 

"  But  it's  absurd  of  you  to  say  you  can't  write  in 
America,"  she  debated.  "  Why,  New  York  is  full  of 
authors — I  haven't  time  to  keep  up  with  half  they 
bring  out.  Now  I'm  going  to  tell  you  what  I  think  is 
the  real  reason  you  praise  Europe.  It's  because  you 
can  throw  off  the  yoke  of  convention  here.  And  you 
shouldn't  want  to.  You  mustn't  fall  into  bad  habits, 
like  those  Latin  Quarter  creatures  who  go  about  with 
baggy  trousers  and  so  much  hair.  But  there's  no 
danger  of  your  doing  that,"  she  qualified,  with  a  satis- 
fied inspection  of  his  clothes.  "  You're  too  much  of 
a  gentleman  to  imitate  Murger's  characters.  No,  if 
you  live  in  Paris,  you  should  meet  the  right  sort  of 
people  ...  go  into  society."  She  was  very  firm  about 
it,  as  he  saw. 

"  Le  monde  od  Von  s  'ennuie,"  he  mocked.  "  It's 
the  sort  of  thing  I  came  abroad  to  avoid." 

"  It's  the  world  where  one  gets  on  in  life,"  she  re- 
torted rather  tartly.  "  And  you  have  a  future  to 
consider.  Every  young  man  must  know  people.  What 
can  a  novelist  learn  about  human  nature,  unless  he 
goes  about  ?  My  friends  " — her  pride  in  the  word 


THE  QUEST  17 

was  excuse  enough — "  will  be  delighted  to  receive  a 
promising  young  author  like  you." 

That  everybody  should  know  everybody  else,  was  a 
mania  with  Miss  Vanderhurst.  She  possessed  to  per- 
fection the  art  of  bringing  people  together  and  cement- 
ing ties  that  would  never  have  existed  except  for  her 
unbounded  belief  in  human  affinities.  With  her,  as 
with  a  large  part  of  the  world  to  which  she  belonged, 
kindness  took  the  form  of  a  pleasant  practical  invest- 
ment. She  had  experienced  all  the  benefits  of  being 
"  passed  on,"  as  she  put  it,  and  if  she  gave  introductions 
freely,  she  as  freely  made  use  of  them  herself.  Julian 
Harding  was,  in  her  eyes,  an  eligible  young  man  who, 
besides  his  picturesque  profession,  had  a  good  deal  of 
personal  attractiveness.  She  had,  in  her  enthusiasm, 
discovered  in  him  some  resemblance  to  Titian's  Man 
with  the  Glove,  her  ideal  of  gentlemanly  looks:  and  to 
be  gentlemanly  looking  was  all  that  one  of  his  sex  need 
be,  even  failing  the  standard  set  by  the  Louvre  master- 
piece. 

Harding  accepted  her  statement  with  a  cynical 
grimace,  that  veiled  a  sense  of  flattery.  "  But  Paris 
is  full  of  '  promising  young  authors,'  "  he  remarked. 
"  It's  easy  enough  to  '  promise  ' — a  different  thing 
to  keep  one's  word.  Society  is  tired  of  accepting  the 
I.O.U.  individual — he  so  often  turns  out  to  be  worth- 
less paper.  People  nowadays  go  in  for  more  solid  secu- 
rities. That's  my  reason  for  keeping  out  of  your 
Vanity  Fair — I  leave  it  to  some  better  equipped 
Autolycus." 

"  Nonsense,"  was  her  brisk  retort,  "  Society  is 

c 


i8  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

where  a  nice  looking  man  like  you  belongs,  talent  or  no 
talent.  What's  the  use  of  wasting  yourself  on  common 
people.  Now,  let  me  think  whom  I  most  want  you  to 
meet.  There  are  the  Eversleys,  of  course  .  .  .  charming 
Americans  living  in  Paris.  You  remember,  I  gave  you 
a  letter  to  them  last  autumn.  They  have  a  little  set 
you'll  find  quite  to  your  taste,  I'm  sure.  Lena — the 
mother,  I  mean — is  a  dear  friend  of  mine.  She  mar- 
ried a  Colonel  Eversley,  of  England,  who  died  shortly 
afterwards,  and  she's  lived  abroad  ever  since.  She  is 
giving  a  garden  fe"te,  by  the  way,  next  week,  and  I'll  ask 
her  if  I  may  bring  you.  She  has  a  daughter,  Monica, 
but  I  doubt  if  you'll  care  much  for  her." 

"  And  why  won't  I  ?  "  he  demanded,  thinking  how 
little  she  knew  what  he  did  care  for. 

"  Well,  for  one  thing,  she's  too  serious  for  you." 

"  And  how  serious  does  a  girl  have  to  be  for  that  ?  " 
Harding  contended  humorously. 

"  Oh,  I  know  your  sex,"  she  affirmed  confidently, 
"  especially  literary  men.  They  like  to  do  their  own 
thinking.  I  remember  Keats  wanted  to  lay  his  head  on 
an  unanalytic  breast,  and  wasn't  it  Heine's  Rosalie  who 
was  so  attractive  because  she  couldn't  read?  Monica 
is  a  nice  enough  girl,  but  she  doesn't  care  for  society, 
goes  in  for  art — she  does  beautiful  enamels — charities, 
and  that  sort  of  thing.  In  fact,  she's  what  one  may 
call  a  superior  girl." 

"  With  the  usual  inferior  figure  ?  " 

"  Oh,  her  figure  is  quite  above  criticism.  Indeed, 
some  people  consider  her  very  handsome  ...  as  she 


THE  QUEST  19 

ought  to  be,  with  her  mother  such  a  beauty.  No,  she 
doesn't  represent  the  homely,  spectacled  kind  of  cul- 
ture. Only,  as  I  say,  she  is  full  of  her  Dorcas  doings 
.  .  .  and  rather  a  pity,  perhaps."  Miss  Vanderhurst 
took  society  seriously,  holding,  as  Harding  facetiously 
put  it  to  himself,  that  charity  began  "  At  Homes." 

"Well,  it's  quite  as  fashionable  as  bridge,  these  days 
— charity,"  he  observed. 

At  which  she  made  a  little  mouth,  characteristic 
when  her  friends  were  assailed. 

"  Yes,  but  I  do  Monica  the  justice  of  believing  her 
governed  by  higher  motives,"  she  returned.  "  You 
shouldn't  be  so  cynical,  Mr.  Harding." 

He  smiled  at  her  crispness.  "  Then  it's  the  daughter, 
after  all,  you  want  me  to  admire  ?  " 

"  Admire  her,  certainly,  if  you  wish.  .  .  .  Only  it  will, 
I  fancy,  be  a  waste  of  time.  I  understand  there's  a 
Frenchman  devoted  to  her — a  Monsieur  Fernet,  who 
took  the  Prix  de  Rome  for  sculpture.  Seriously,"  she 
continued,  "  I  should  much  like  you  to  be  nice  to  Lena. 
I've  known  and  loved  her  since  I  was  a  girl.  To  be  sure, 
I  was  considerably  her  senior  then,  as  I  am  like  her 
grandmother  now."  And  she  gave  a  tolerant  laugh, 
that  had  a  great  deal  of  sound  philosophy  in  it.  "  Lena 
is  one  of  those  Madame  Recamiers  that  one  meets, 
perhaps,  once  in  a  lifetime.  She's  quite  as  young  in 
heart  as  she  is  in  looks.  Her  youthfulness  is  one  of  her 
little  weaknesses,  I  admit ;  and  she  spends  more  time  at 
the  Institut  de  Beaut6 — like  other  beauties — than  I'd 
care  to  myself  .  .  .  but  chacun  d  son  gotit.  Besides, 

C2 


20  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

she  has  her  standard  to  keep  up,  poor  dear.  One  can 
forgive  the  harmless  vanity  in  a  woman  as  pretty  as  she 
is.  She  may  strike  you  as  a  little  frivolous  at  first,  but 
her  girlhood  was  a  rather  sad  one,  and  that  excuses  her 
love  of  enjoyment  now.  She  entertains  a  great  deal, 
especially  the  art  set.  You'll  meet  Percy  Colston  at 
her  house,  among  others." 

"  And  who  is  Percy  Colston  ?  " 

"  But  I  thought  everybody  in  Paris  knew  him.  It's 
his  play  that's  to  be  given  next  Monday.  He's  an 
American  that  has  expatriated  himself — sold  his  birth- 
right for  a  mess  of  foreign  ideas.  I  don't  know  that  I 
care  for  him :  he  is  affected,  precious,  and  far  too  much 
of  an  Antinous  in  looks.  He's  been  useful  to  Lena  in 
helping  her  to  make  her  little  circle  of  clever  people,  so 
I  don't  wonder  she's  devoted  to  him." 

Miss  Vanderhurst  allowed  it  in  a  way  that  suggested 
qualifications.  It  was  evident  she  had  Lena  a  good  deal 
on  her  mind.  She  hesitated,  considering  Harding  as 
though  interweaving  him  into  some  design.  But  she 
checked  herself  before  words  came.  Curiosity,  of  a  sort, 
made  him  ply  her  further  with  questions  as  to  these 
friends  of  hers,  who  struck  him  as  a  bit  depressing  in 
contemplation:  a  woman  of  smiling  anachronistic 
youth,  preoccupied  with  beauty  lotions  and  bleaches; 
a  daughter  on  whom  doubtless  weighed  the  burden  of 
heavy,  half-digested  reading.  He  was  not  fond  of 
what  passed  in  the  world  as  "  culture  ";  it  seemed  to 
him  it  deadened  the  natural  aroma  in  people.  The  girl 
would  take  herself  seriously  and  expect  him  to  take 


THE  QUEST  21 

her  at  her  own  value.  Knowing  that  Miss  Vander- 
hurst  was  inclined  to  throw  a  primrose  hue  over  those 
she  had  once  accepted,  he  asked,  with  pretended 
enthusiasm: 

"  So  Mrs.  Eversley  is  interested  in  art  as  well  as  her 
daughter?  " 

"  Well,  not  as  interested  in  it  as  in  artists,  perhaps," 
she  replied.  "  They  amuse  her,  and  she  stays  them 
with  flagons  and  comforts  them  with  truffles.  They 
make  her  Wednesday  dinners  decorative.  Now  Percy 
Colston  is  altogether  decorative.  He  goes  well  with 
Lena's  furniture,  which  is  mostly  of  his  choosing. 
That's  one  reason,  I  suppose,  she  so  likes  to  have  him 
about — he's  a  kind  of  objet  d'art  .  .  .  ." 

A  puzzled  look  had  crossed  her  face. 

"  Have  you  noticed,"  she  interrupted  herself,"  those 
Americans  over  there?  I  seem  to  recall  having  seen 
them  before — and,  you  know,  I'm  rather  proud  of 
never  forgetting  faces." 

Harding  followed  her  glance.  "  It's  Miss  Zenobia 
Baxter  and  her  niece,  of  Boston,"  he  said. 

In  her  interest  she  did  not  remark  his  constraint. 
"  Of  course,"  she  said,  relievedly,  "  I  remember  now. 
They  were  at  Pinehurst,  a  year  ago  last  March.  Miss 
Buttercup  was  doing  a  great  deal  of  golfing  with  a  cloud 
of  male  witnesses.  It  was  said  at  the  Carolina  that  the 
aunt  went  to  bed  with  her  sunbursts  on — a  rather 
terrible  person.  It's  the  family,  you  know,  of  Hiram 
Baxter,  the  tea  merchant,  who  is  so  absurdly  rich. 
'  Baxter's  Surpassing  Ceylon  '  .  .  .  one  sees  it  advertised 


22  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

everywhere."  Miss  Vanderhurst  resorted  to  her  lorgn- 
ette, to  assist  her  astigmatic  vision  in  summing  them 
up.  "  The  girl  is  handsome,  but  too  conspicuously 
dressed.  And  like  that  sort  of  American,  she  talks  with 
the  loud  pedal  on.  How  we  do  love  to  make  our  pre- 
sence felt!  When  we  come  into  public  places  I  can't 
help  thinking  of  the  Soldiers'  Chorus  in  Faust." 

"  If  we  were  only  that  musical,"  he  commented. 
"  But  I  fear  we  were  born  with  megaphones,  not  bugles, 
in  our  mouth." 

He  was  in  that  stage  of  European  development  when 
Americans  are  rather  harsh  as  to  their  own  people. 

Miss  Vanderhurst  still  inspected  the  objects  of  her 
criticism. 

"  You  can  see,"  she  said,  "  that  that  Italian  tenor  is 
singing  his  '  O  sole  mio  '  to  her,  and  that  she  knows  it. 
I  do  wonder  if  all  that  colour  is  her  own." 

"  If  it  isn't,"  he  said  lightly,  "  it  isn't  because  she 
hasn't  enough  of  her  own.  But  I've  observed  that 
putting  on  paint  is  as  much  a  question  of  temperament 
as  of  cheeks.  There  are  women  I  know  with  complex- 
ions like  roses,  that  rouge.  It's  the  age  of  gilding 
refined  gold." 

"  Well,  there's  nothing  refined  about  Hiram  Baxter's 
gold,"  she  answered,  with  her  Knickerbocker  prejudices 
coming  to  the  surface.  "  They  are  friends  of  yours, 
then  ?  "  and  she  eyed  him  with  suspicion. 

"  Yes,"  he  admitted,  "  I've  seen  something  of  them. 
.  .  .  They've  been  spending  the  winter  in  Paris.  " 

She  let  the  fact  settle  down  in  her  before  she  replied. 


THE  QUEST  23 

"  So,  like  Jason,  you're  in  quest  of  the  golden  fleece? 
It  was  stupid  of  me  not  to  guess  the  reason  why  you 
neglected  the  letters  I  gave  you.  Yet,"  and  she 
smiled  with  the  charity  which  comprehended  conditions 
alien  to  herself,  "  why  not  marry  to  be  comfortable  ? 
Literary  men,  of  all  people,  need  to  be  looked  after,  and 
probably  Miss  Buttercup  will  make  an  excellent  wife. 
Americans  are  so  clever  at  getting  civilised  .  .  .  that's 
one  reason  I  respect  them  so.  Now,  it  won't  be  hard 
to  teach  your  young  woman  not  to  put  too  much  en- 
thusiasm into  showing  how  perfectly  at  ease  she  is. 
One  often  goes  to  such  pains  to  be  vulgar  to  prove  one 
isn't.  But  I  blame  the  girl's  aunt  and  not  her  for  her 
little  mistakes." 

"  I've  heard  it  said,"  he  observed,  "  that  Miss  Zeno- 
bia  looks  every  inch  a  duchess.  You  notice  she  has  a 
good  many  round  the  waist !  "  And  he  broke  into  a 
laugh  that  was  genuine  enough. 

'  Yes,  I  suppose  she  does  look  . . .  like  some  duchesses, 
poor  thing;"  she  replied.  "But  that's  not  her  fault. 
No  doubt,  she  has  her  good  points.  I'm  sure,  any  way, 
she's  kind-hearted — people  with  double  chins  always 
are.  Besides,  you're  not  going  to  marry  the  aunt." 

"  Have  I  said  I  was  going  to  marry  anybody !  "  with 
an  apposing  laugh. 

"  No,  of  course  you  haven't,"  she  promptly  returned. 
"  One  doesn't  live  fifty  odd  years  without  discovering 
it's  generally  what  people  don't  say  that  counts.  You're 
doubtless  right,  Mr.  Harding,  in  marrying  where  there's 
room  for  improvement.  Half  the  failures  in  matrimony 


24  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

come  from  mating  perfection.  It  will  give  you  some- 
thing to  do,  sand-papering  Miss  Buttercup  down  so 
that  she  can  pour  her  father's  tea  for  you  with  credit, 
when  you're  a  celebrity.  And  where  there's  so  much 
tea,  she  went  on  with  good-natured  banter,  "  it's  a  pity 
not  to  drink  it  with  nice  people.  Now,  I'll  let  you  go 
to  your  heiress,  who,  I  see,  is  pining  for  you."  She 
gave  him  her  hand  as  she  spoke,  adding  with  more 
gravity,  "  and  remember,  try  to  be  happy.  It's  an  art 
you  haven't  sufficiently  cultivated,  I  fear." 

Her  sharp  old  eyes  had  marked  the  shadow  on  his 
face,  in  spite  of  its  conventional  smiles. 

"  I  wish  I  could,"  he  answered,  with  some  seriousness. 

She  had  retained  his  hand.  "  My  dear  boy,"  she  said 
gently,  "  there's  something  about  you  that  worries  me 
a  little,  though  I  don't  know  what  it  is.  It's  common- 
place to  remind  you  that  all  life's  before  you — and  to 
have  everything  still  to  live  for  is  such  a  wonderful 
thing.  If  youth  only  knew,"  and  she  vented  a  little 
sigh,  "  but  it  doesn't,  so  why  preach  ?  But  be  warned, 
the  time  will  come  when  you'll  regret  les  jours  heureux 
quand  j'etais  miserable.  If  I've  learned  nothing  else 
of  life,  I've  taught  myself  to  take  its  present  j  oys.  And 
now,  goodbye.  .  .  .  And  remember,  I  shall  expect  you  at 
four  o'clock,  next  Monday,  to  go  with  me  to  the  Evers- 
leys'.  " 


CHAPTER  II 

HARDING  had  been  moved  to  say  something  to  Miss 
Vanderhurst  which  he  usually  kept  to  himself,  aware 
of  the  ridicule  with  which  it  was  received.  He  was,  as 
he  knew,  governed  by  a  most  unpopular  philosophy 
about  life,  the  theory  of  which  had  escaped  him  in  his 
rather  artificial  talk  with  that  amiable  and  experienced 
spinster.  It  was  that  there  is  a  certain  proportion  of 
people  in  the  world  wholly  unqualified  for  life  under  its 
present  conditions.  The  thought  often  mocked  him  in 
his  literary  impulse,  inclined  him,  as  a  general  thing,  to 
feel  that  the  profession  he  had  adopted,  like  any  other 
he  might  have  chosen,  was  merely  the  invention  of  a 
man  who,  from  necessity,  indulges  in  deception,  by 
parading  a  "  reason "  for  his  existence  before  the 
world.  He  felt  there  was  no  reason  at  all — that  it  was 
all  a  pitiable  pretence.  It  lay  far  back  in  life,  was  even 
the  strange  germ  of  his  infancy.  Little  able  to  define 
himself,  he  a  good  deal  puzzled  others:  for  the  world 
mostly  depends,  in  attempting  to  understand  us,  on 
the  explanatory  attitude  we  adopt  towards  it.  Harding 
made  no  attempt  to  offer  even  half-clues.  Of  varied 
opinions  entertained  about  life,  he  was  conscious  that 
his  was  the  least  acceptable.  To  dispose  of  deity  was 
more  excusable  than  to  dispose  of  oneself  as  a  negligible 
factor  in  the  grand  scheme  of  things  which,  according 


26  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

to  popular  hypothesis,  whirled  about  the  hub  of  one's 
poor  little  universe.  It  offended  the  egotism  of  man- 
kind, and  that  was  the  sin  of  sins.  Mankind  was 
created  in  the  likeness  of  God.  .  .  .  Was  it  not  that,  half 
the  time,  it  confused  itself  with  that  supreme  spirit  ? 

Besides,  in  Harding's  case,  there  seemed  no  particu- 
lar warrant  for  the  depressing  heresy.  He  was  young, 
with,  as  Miss  Vanderhurst  unorigmally  remarked,  "  the 
world  before  him";  together  with  his  presentable 
appearance,  also  an  asset  in  her  eyes,  he  was  possessed 
of  considerable,  if  somewhat  confused  talent,  and  un- 
hampered by  definite  ills  of  the  flesh.  That  was  as 
much  capital  as  the  average  person  had  to  draw  on, 
when  taking  part  in  the  game  of  life,  the  rigours  of 
which,  as  was  often  affirmed  by  his  friends,  impressed 
its  zest.  It  was  certainly  the  natural,  robust  way  of 
looking  at  things,  they  said,  and  Harding  not  infre- 
quently was  obliged  to  agree  that  it  was. 

Yet — and  there  had  lain  his  melancholy — the 
cankering  sense  of  personal  futility  was  in  him;  and 
it  too  often  triumphed  over  his  arguments  with  him- 
self. It  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  born  with  that 
blind,  gnawing  worm  in  his  heart,  that  it  had  always, 
more  or  less  consciously,  made  its  presence  known  to 
him  .  .  .  even  in  earliest  youth,  when  the  poet  part 
of  his  nature  awakened  to  the  mystery  and  beauty  of 
the  world,  bringing  a  curious  old  kind  of  world-ache. 
Child  that  he  was,  he  recognized  a  certain  exiling 
difference  between  himself  and  others.  As  he  waxed 
older,  he  endeavoured  to  diagnose  the  feeling,  which 


THE  QUEST  27 

seemed  to  say  he  was  not  in  his  own  spiritual  country 
or  age.  Life  struck  him  oddly  as  having  some  elusive 
quality  of  alien  unmeaningness,  as  if  he  had  been  born 
without  birthright.  So  affected  was  his  imagination  by 
the  idea,  that  he  believed  he  saw  the  confirmation  in 
all  he  futilely  tried  to  do;  and  he  ended  by  saying  to 
himself  he  would  always  grope  and  never  reach  an 
actual  goal.  It  was  a  desolating  philosophy,  but  it  had 
the  merit  of  being  sincere. 

Up  to  his  present  thirty  years,  life  had  been  one  of 
rather  lamentable  makeshift.  His  boyhood  had  passed 
pleasantly  enough,  amid  ease  and  parental  indulgence. 
And  his  taste  for  books  had  naturally  led  to  his  being 
sent  to  a  university,  even  at  some  pinch  of  family 
pocket.  Already  things  had  begun  to  go  wrong  with 
the  Hardings.  His  father,  a  man  without  business 
or  profession,  but  possessed  by  a  passion  for  visionary 
fortune-making,  had,  by  a  last  unlucky  investment, 
consumed  all  but  a  pittance  of  money,  hardly  sufficient 
to  keep  himself  and  his  heroically  Christian  wife  in 
their  Catskill  home,  whence  one  could  see  the  Hudson 
bending  in  wide  silvery  expanses  as  it  poured  its  waters 
on  to  New  York,  seemingly  so  remote  from  the  peace 
of  green  things  that  the  Hardings  enjoyed. 

When  the  knowledge  came  that  his  father  was  no 
longer  able  to  support  the  expense  of  his  education, 
Julian  abandoned  university  life  without  the  regret 
that  might  have  come  from  riper  study.  He  recognized 
that  he  had  not  the  scholarly  mind.  His  acquisition 
of  knowledge  had  been  spasmodic  and  superficial;  his 


28  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

memory  was  inaccurate;  he  could  master  only  what 
emotionally  appealed  to  him.  He  had  but  skimmed 
the  classics,  retained  general  outlines  of  history,  drawn 
sparse  food  from  philosophy,  and  he  added  to  this 
small  mental  capital  a  fair  acquaintance  with  general 
literature. 

It  was  a  slender  equipment,  and  he  could,  with  it, 
hardly  enter  a  profession.  He  turned,  therefore, 
without  complaint,  to  bread  earning  in  a  business 
world.  He  was  conscious  here  of  a  lack  of  qualification. 
But  he  possessed  the  hopefulness  of  youth,  in  his 
brighter  moments.  That  will  wins  the  day,  was  so  well 
authenticated  an  axiom  that  he  accepted  it  as  truth, 
applying  it  to  his  attitude  towards  work. 

An  ineradicable  fear  of  life  was  forgotten  in  these 
initial  efforts  of  living.  Search  for  occupation  proved, 
however,  vain;  letters  of  seeming  influence,  personal 
appeal,  all  was  met  by  polite  subterfuge,  easing  con- 
science on  one  side,  tending  to  sustain  false  hope  on 
the  other.  Harding  had  the  precocity  to  see  that  his 
inutility  was  read  at  a  glance;  that  he  inspired  the 
practical  world  with  suspicion.  Yet  he  did  not  quail 
before  the  recognition.  .  .  .  He  often  wondered,  later, 
what  became  of  the  spirit  that  could  so  resolutely,  yet 
so  hopelessly  face  life,  in  those  early  days. 

Was  there  nothing  to  do,  then,  he  asked  himself, 
but  try  to  turn  his  vague  literary  talents  to  some 
account  ?  Favour  of  a  kind  had  been  shown  his  verses 
by  different  magazines.  There  had  been,  perhaps, 
a  real  flash  of  inspiration  in  them;  but  successful 


THE  QUEST  29 

versifiers  were  a  rarity;  and,  in  truth,  it  demanded 
greater  power  than  he  possessed  to  stir  the  dreary 
twilight  fallen  on  the  realm  of  poetry,  though  the 
wasted  Muses  still  wove  their  thin  laurels  for  a  few 
brows.  As  for  prose  writing,  he  had  done  little  of  it, 
and,  as  was  pointed  out  to  him  with  academic  severity 
by  his  instructors,  his  style  showed  the  over-coloured 
lyricism  common  to  the  poetic  mind,  depreciating  its 
journalistic  usefulness.  Besides,  he  was  still  too  much 
the  dreamer.  Experience  of  life,  of  human  nature, 
resource  of  the  story-teller — was  not  within  his  com- 
pass. People  in  general,  the  concerns  of  daily  living, 
had  never  much  interested  him;  his  mind  lay  still 
under  the  spell  of  the  unreal,  that  phantasy  the 
century  derided  in  its  passion  for  the  vivid  notes  of  the 
contemporaneous. 

His  funds  sank  sadly  low;  yet  pride  forebade  a 
return  home,  beaten  from  the  fields  of  labour.  Des- 
perate, he  consulted,  one  day  the  "  Want  "  columns 
of  a  newspaper,  and  chanced  on  the  advertisement 
of  an  obscure  publishing  house  in  need  of  someone 
"  who  could  make  himself  useful."  The  address  was 
a  shabby  old-time  mansion,  in  a  part  of  the  town 
long  abandoned  by  the  fashion  which  had  once  hal- 
lowed it.  At  the  sight  of  the  well-dressed  applicant, 
the  dyspeptic-faced  proprietor  of  the  dubious  concern 
declared  Harding  unfit  for  the  manual  work  desired; 
but  as  Harding  persisted  in  his  appeal,  he  was  at  last 
engaged  on  the  wages  of  three  dollars  a  week. 

He   nevertheless   rejoiced   over   this   first   foothold 


30  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

in  commercial  life,  and  threw  himself  energetically  in 
his  tasks.  These  began  at  six  in  the  morning,  when  he 
set  out  on  the  basement  rail  sensational  announce- 
ments of  the  pirated  second-rate  publications  of  the 
house;  after  which  he  swept  the  floors  and  made  fires 
preparatory  to  the  arrival  of  his  employer  and  the 
several  clerks.  A  certain  socialistic  treatise,  which  had 
attained  wide  popularity  in  England,  was  the  main 
source  of  the  publisher's  prosperity;  and  this  cheap 
American  edition,  flaunting  cherry-coloured  covers, 
Harding  spent  the  day  tying  up  in  express  parcels; 
or  he  prepared  for  the  mail  bag  a  weekly  sheet,  com- 
posed of  cuttings  from  newspapers  and  periodicals, 
which,  under  an  iconoclastic  title,  was  launched  on  a 
small  world  of  rabid  reformers.  The  occasional  visits 
of  these  subscribers — some  of  whom  had  dreams  of 
founding  Utopias  in  uncivilized  lands — added  to  the 
ironic  enjoyment  he  took  in  his  work.  Cheerfulness 
did  not  desert  him,  in  spite  of  the  hard  makeshifts  of 
his  life.  The  incongruity  of  his  position  pleased  his 
sense  of  humour  and  added  to  his  knowledge  of  human 
types.  By  writing  verses  at  night  he  earned  a  little 
extra  money,  enough  to  keep  him  alive;  and  after 
some  weeks  he  secured  a  more  lucrative  place  in  another 
more  reputable  publishing-house  which,  hearing  what 
he  was  doing,  reconsidered  the  letter  of  recom- 
mendation he  had  presented  on  first  coming  to  the 
city. 

He    found,    however,    that    the    change,    if    more 
advantageous  to  his  pocket,  was  more  offensive  to  his 


THE  QUEST  31 

feelings  than  the  humble  occupation  given  up.  Besides, 
the  novelty  of  unsuitable  toil  had  begun  to  wear  off 
leaving  him  with  a  keener  sense  of  deprivations.  He 
had  now  before  him  the  necessity,  as  a  clerk  in  a 
popular  book-shop,  of  trying  to  adopt  the  dapper 
airs  and  glib  speciousness  that  obtained  round 
him.  To  rattle  off  formulas  of  unread  books  with  the 
manner  of  the  well-informed,  to  hesitate  at  no  lie 
calculated  to  force  on  customers  a  dull  work  of  the 
house  in  preference  to  a  more  desirable  one  produced 
by  a  rival  firm,  these  were  some  of  the  expected  qualifi- 
cations of  successful  book  clerkship.  Harding  revolted 
at  such  standards  of  servile  mendacity;  traditions  of 
birth,  instinctive  scrupulousness  of  nature,  not  yet 
yielding  to  time,  made  him  balk  at  being  thus  broken 
on  the  wheel  of  trade  usage;  and  the  rebellion  was 
quickly  noted.  The  clerks  resented  his  reserve,  that 
cooled  their  advances;  the  head  of  the  department, 
a  lean,  jauntily-dressed  time-server,  delighted  in 
humiliating  one  who  presumed  to  play  the  gentleman 
behind  the  counter.  And  after  the  "  rush  season  " — 
Christmas  "  holiday  week,"  that  exacted  of  him  and  his 
tired  fellow-clerks  night  work  at  poor  extra  wages — 
he  was  told  he  was  no  longer  needed  on  the  ground 
that  the  pay-roll  of  the  house  demanded  curtailment. 
He  left  the  shop  with  a  feeling  of  inexpressible  relief, 
though  it  thrust  him  again  face  to  face  with  the 
desperate  problem  of  living. 

From  one  mean  job  to  another  he  drifted  through 
the  winter.  The  humiliation  of  these  continued  defeats 


32  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

affected  his  spirits;  and  he  suffered,  too,  from  a  personal 
shabbiness,  that  proclaimed  his  failure  to  the  world. 
His  nervous  organization,  never  strong,  demanded 
better  nourishment  than  was  afforded  by  the  cheap 
boarding  houses,  noisy  with  vulgar  inmates,  where  he 
found  shelter  in  unsanitary  well-rooms.  The  strain  of 
night-work — for  in  the  only  hours  he  was  free  he 
feverishly  wrote  whatever  editors  would  take,  sowed 
seeds  of  insomnia  which  eventually  began  sapping  his 
vitality.  Yet,  as  he  told  himself,  there  was  nothing  to 
do  but  struggle  on;  that  inescapable  fact  discounted 
any  sentiment  of  heroism  that  might  have  come  to 
his  spiritual  support.  In  truth,  the  idea  of  heroism  of 
effort  never  crossed  his  mind,  for  there  were  too  many 
people  like  him  in  the  world.  With  odd  enough  per- 
sistence, as  he  came  to  think  in  the  end,  he  clung  to  the 
hypothesis  that  life,  if  it  failed  to  be  a  bountiful  mother, 
must  at  least  give  grudging  stepdame  dole  to  the 
deserving;  and  he  pleased  himself,  on  occasion,  with 
picturing  ultimate  reward  of  honest  effort  at  self- 
maintenance.  Surely  there  was  a  key  to  his  prison  door 
that  he  would  find  at  last ! 

Work  had  permitted  no  return  home;  and  to  inquir- 
ing letters  from  his  parents,  he  returned  evasive  replies. 
.  .  .  Why  add  to  the  melancholy  of  their  aged  days  by 
recounting  his  disappointments?  But  as  the  spring 
came  on,  the  longing  for  his  familiar  mountains,  for 
the  sweetness  and  healing  of  green  growing  things, 
came  to  him  like  thirsty  mirages  looming  on  desert 
sands.  He  endeavoured  to  satisfy  this  nature  hunger 


THE  QUEST  33 

by  strolls  in  Central  Park  or  along  Riverside  Drive  in 
the  glamorous  twilights  of  the  unfolding  year.  His 
passion  for  beauty  found  some  solace  on  Sunday  after- 
noon visits  to  the  Metropolitan  Museum  with  its 
pictures  and  marbles,  that  recreated  old  regions  of 
imagination  where  once  he  had  strayed. 

It  was  here,  before  the  nobler  things  of  art,  that  fits 
of  ineffable  sadness  swept  him;  here,  where  with 
reviving  ache  for  the  loveliness  of  life,  he  experienced 
a  sense  of  bitter  alienation  from  the  world  that  held 
his  youth  captive.  He  had  not  been  born,  he  told 
himself,  for  such  mean  struggle;  and  even  victory,  if 
ever  it  came,  could  not  compensate  for  what  fortune 
had  robbed  him  .  .  .  that  evanescence  of  some  fragile 
inner  quality  of  boyhood,  right  to  a  realm  of  spirit 
where  once  he  had  wandered  and  felt  himself  at  home. 

One  hot  day  in  August,  as  he  tramped  the  street 
in  the  dreary  capacity  of  a  book  agent,  he  received  a 
sunstroke  and  was  taken,  unconscious,  to  a  hospital, 
where  he  lay  ill  for  some  weeks.  On  his  convalescence, 
the  doctor  advised  a  sea-trip,  and  with  money  supplied 
by  his  parents,  aware  at  last  of  his  straits,  he  embarked 
on  a  sailing  vessel  for  South  America,  where  a  friend  of 
university  days  was  engaged  in  cattle-raising.  And 
here,  in  a  new  world  of  bracing  out-door  life,  he  spent 
a  half-year  piecing  together  his  shattered  health. 

On  returning  to  New  York  it  seemed  that  the  door 
of  opportunity  at  which  he  had  knocked  so  unsuccess- 
fully, was  no  longer  bolted,  but  stood  invitingly  ajar. 
He  had  written  ranch  life  in  a  series  of  articles  that  a 

D 


34  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

magazine  readily  accepted.  These  led,  after  a  little, 
through  friendly  intervention,  to  an  offer  of  a  literary 
sub-editorship  on  a  newspaper  that  had  decided  to 
expand  its  book-reviewing  department  to  something 
like  the  dignity  of  space  given  its  sporting  columns. 
His  articles  read  well,  and  he  should  have  been  loth 
to  acknowledge  what  their  effectiveness  cost  him.  His 
natural  prose  style  had  no  spontaneity  of  life,  and  the 
"  pleasing  quality  "  of  his  sketches  had  been  secured 
only  by  determined  re-writing. 

While  the  success  of  these  articles  inspired  him  with 
some  belief  in  his  ability  to  write  acceptable  prose,  he 
found  his  pen  far  from  trained  for  the  work  imposed  on 
him  as  a  reviewer.  He  knew  little  of  the  ephemeral 
literature  of  the  day.  What  he  had  read  had  been  of  the 
best,  though  unsystematic  in  choice  and  mostly 
governed  by  whim;  yet  for  all  that,  he  had  acquired  a 
fair  accumulation  of  useful  odds  and  ends  to  aid  him 
in  his  task.  Besides  which  he  had  a  natural  fitness  of 
taste,  with  a  disposition  to  judge  art  broadly  and 
impersonally.  With  scrupulous  care,  he  attacked  the 
toppling  crags  of  books  hemming  in  his  desk.  He 
deliberated  over  his  judgments  as  though  they  were 
life  and  death  sentences,  and  devoted  to  the  fashion 
of  saying  things  such  pains  that  he  found  little  time 
for  recreation.  His  seriousness  amused  his  fellow 
journalists,  but  as  they  saw  his  ardour  continue  they 
spoke  of  him  in  the  end  with  some  respect. 

The  routine  of  a  New  York  newspaper  office  was 
something  to  which  he  slowly  grew  inured.  Although 


THE  QUEST  35 

in  the  world  of  news-gathering,  he  never  was — nor 
could  be — of  it.  Willingly  he  performed  what  was 
demanded  of  him — and  it  was  varied  enough — but 
at  bottom  there  remained  an  unconquerable  detach- 
ment of  spirit.  He  cared  nothing  about  the  multi- 
tudinous details  of  life  that  gave  reason  for  journalism. 
What  did  mere  news  matter  to  anybody  ?  Yet  it  was 
his  obligation  to  take  the  trivial  seriously,  bend  his 
knee  before  Ephemera,  supreme  Tenth  muse  of  feverish 
modern  worship.  The  turmoil  of  the  office  was  a 
reproduction  in  life  of  the  vast  pandemonium  reigning 
outside,  in  the  street,  in  the  looming,  honeycombed 
monoliths  that  made  New  York  mountainous,  stupen- 
dously scenic,  a  transplanted  Garden  of  the  Gods. 
It  was  all  part  of  the  madness  of  the  new  Stone  Age, 
where  everything  was  hard,  granitic,  from  the  giddy 
Babel  towers  round  him  to  the  hearts  of  those  that 
reared  them.  The  breathlessness  of  journalism  hectored 
and  confused  him.  There  were  days  of  "  rush  copy," 
where  no  time  was  granted  to  think  of  what  one  wrote, 
the  altars  of  the  Press  called  for  their  hecatombs;  and 
what  was  not  known,  had  to  be  invented.  It  was  not 
ignorance  that  was  a  crime,  it  was  its  confession.  The 
school  was  one  in  which,  if  he  failed  to  secure  a  diploma, 
he  could  hardly  help  acquiring  the  art  of  doing  what 
was  expected;  and  he  did  it,  in  spite  of  distaste,  with 
more  than  average  proficiency. 

It  was  among  such  surroundings  that  the  best 
years  of  youth  passed.  His  salary  increased  slowly, 
until  he  was  able  to  live  with  a  fair  amount  of  comfort. 

D2 


36  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

Faces  came  and  went  in  the  office;  but  he  remained. 
Change  meant  acquiring  new  methods  for  new  masters, 
who  would  exact  the  same  thing  .  .  .  the  greatest 
amount  of  work  for  the  least  amount  of  money.  That 
was  business,  that  was  life,  it  was  what  New  York 
scrawled  across  the  heavens  that  arched  above  it  in 
sulphurous  smoke  .  .  .  the  only  coherent  message 
shrieked  by  the  roar  of  occupation.  The  thought  did 
not  make  him  socialistic,  as  it  made  some.  It  produced 
rather  a  dull  wonder  that  he  had  ever  conceived  life 
to  be  other  than  he  found  it.  Yet,  why  had  things  been 
born  in  him  only  to  fade  like  sad  sunsets  heralding 
starless  dark  .  .  .  the  darkness  of  instincts  atrophied, 
of  tastes  starved  to  death?  He  was  treading,  it  was 
true,  the  common  path,  known  as  the  "  morality  of 
labour  "  It  was  what  a  generally  accepted  philosophy 
termed  "  evolution,"  bringing,  it  was  affirmed,  the 
fruit  of  the  tested  and  perfected  man.  It  might  mean 
perfection  for  some.  .  .  .  But  was  there  ultimate  per- 
fection in  it  for  him  ?  One  by  one,  it  seemed,  the  strings 
of  his  spirit  snapped,  the  innate  music  of  life  faltered 
and  grew  thin.  How  was  it  "  evolving  "  to  change  from 
the  dreamer  to  the  accomplished  slave  of  circumstance, 
having  nothing  beyond  the  day  filled  with  its  trivial 
sops  and  its  utter  lassitude  of  heart  ? 

As  he  learned  to  do  his  work  more  facilely,  he  found 
some  leisure  for  human  intercourse.  Reading  as  a  pas- 
time had  long  been  discounted  through  the  monotony 
and  eye-strain  of  reviewing;  and  there  remained 
no  freshness  for  personal  creation  after  a  day  de- 


THE  QUEST  37 

voted  to  the  creations  of  others.  Relaxation  of  mind 
was  a  necessity,  and  he  began  to  go  out  in  the 
world.  His  parents — who  meanwhile  had  died  in 
weary  agedness — had  once  had  many  social  ties  in  New 
York,  and  he  was  received  by  these  friends  for  his 
family's  sake  and  for  his  own.  One  day  he  gathered 
together  his  printed  verses  and  sent  them  to  a  publisher. 
The  appearance  of  the  small  volume  received  some 
favourable  comment;  then  it  passed  into  the  shadow 
of  the  things  of  yesterday.  Its  little  hour  on  the  book- 
stalls had,  however,  given  him  his  claim  to  notice; 
and  New  York  classed  him  among  its  hosts  of  lesser 
authors. 

He  dipped  into  the  artistic  circles  of  the  city,  yet 
with  no  great  feeling  of  congeniality.  What  he  met 
seemed  to  him  a  depressing  proof  of  the  decadence  of 
modern  letters.  It  was  better,  he  avowed,  to  see 
authorship  through  the  glass  of  book-shop  windows 
than  thus  face  to  face  shorn  of  last  illusions.  Those 
who  succeeded  and  those  who  failed  seemed  equally 
corrupted  by  the  commercialism  of  the  day.  The  talk 
he  listened  to,  reminded  him  of  the  ticking  in  a  broker's 
office ;  books  appeared  to  have  a  doubtful  value  beyond 
the  market  quotations.  Literature  had  become  a  means 
of  bread  winning,  and  everything  about  it  smacked 
of  the  dough-trough.  It  was  with  disappointment  he 
turned  from  it  all  to  a  world  which  had,  at  least,  the 
charm  of  easy,  agreeable  living,  where  cultivation  was 
like  a  personal  ornament,  not  a  ball-and-chain  dragged 
about  to  recall  one's  servitude  to  art.  Yet  he  was  not 


38  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

very  congenial  here.  His  attitude  towards  society  was 
one  of  surface  adaptations,  that  left  the  inner  man 
unused.  Unwillingly,  he  acknowledged  that  he  had 
no  talent  for  getting  the  best  out  of  people.  In  spirit 
he  was  a  stranger  within  the  social  gates,  one  contri- 
buting little  real  and  receiving  little  real  in  return. 

The  day  arrived  when  he  woke  from  his  stupor  of 
living.  He  fell  in  love.  It  was  one  of  those  spontaneous, 
unreasoning  passions  of  youth  that  take  the  heart 
like  a  malady.  It  changed  him,  brought  him  down 
from  abstract  emotions  to  a  single  concrete  absorption. 
But  love  was  all  on  his  side,  and  when  it  ended  for 
him,  he  was  still  too  young  not  to  take  it  tragically 
and  try  to  cauterize  his  heart  with  cynicism.  He 
believed  himself  sentimentally  bankrupt.  He  did  not 
tell  himself  he  could  never  love  again.  But  he  was 
convinced  his  nature  was  incapable  of  any  more  such 
reckless,  complete  giving. 

Something,  indeed,  was  for  the  time  being  gone; 
life  seemed  more  and  more  a  hopeless  grind,  and  over 
his  spirit  fell  more  blackly  the  shadow  of  realizing  the 
doom  he  had  chosen  for  himself;  a  newspaper  hack 
who  must  pass  the  rest  of  his  days  on  a  fixed  small 
salary  of  a  newspaper  hack. 

He  revolted,  perhaps,  because  New  York  had  become 
intolerable  to  him  through  the  restlessness  bred  by  a 
heart  which  still  felt  its  loss;  and  one  day,  taking  his 
courage  in  hand,  he  applied  for  a  year's  leave  of  absence, 
in  which  to  go  abroad.  The  paper,  perhaps  not  un- 
appreciative  of  long  faithful  service,  arranged  that  he 


THE  QUEST  39 

should  do  correspondence  work  for  it  from  Paris.  He 
had  picked  on  Paris  as  the  place  most  calculated  to 
dissipate  melancholy  and  give  back  artistic  ardour. 
Perhaps  it  might  even  help  him  to  read  the  sphinx's 
riddle  of  life,  which,  so  far,  he  had  unsuccessfully 
answered. 

And  now,  after  a  half-year  in  Paris,  he  still  faced  that 
monster  barring  existence's  Theban  road,  as  unable  as 
before  to  solve  the  conundrum  demanded  of  his  man- 
hood. 

But  he  had  learned  one  thing — that  it  was  easier  to 
change  environment  than  character. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  fine  spring  weather  on  which  depended  the  Evers- 
leys'  garden  party,  that  was  rather  forcing  the  season, 
held  out,  and  on  the  following  Monday,  Harding  pre- 
sented himself,  in  accordance  with  his  promise,  at  Miss 
Vanderhurst's  hotel. 

The  Eversleys  lived  at  Neuilly,  and  the  cab  having 
passed  the  Porte  Maillot,  proceeded  up  the  Boulevard 
Bineau  and  turning  into  a  side  street  drew  up  before  a 
large,  white-plastered  corner  house  with  green  shutters. 

They  were  admitted  into  a  broad  hall,  lighted  by 
glass  doors  giving  on  a  garden.  The  effect  of  well-con- 
sidered decoration,  Harding  gathered  in  a  hasty  glance. 
Between  plastered  spaces  of  wall,  left  to  its  original 
stucco,  panels  in  tempera  by  Panini  displayed  charm- 
ingly impossible  classic  landscapes.  Below  these  were 
several  handsome  light-framed  canapes  relieved  in 
gold,  and  flanking  the  salon  doorway  verd  antique 
pedestals  supported  marble  busts  of  eighteenth  century 
actresses  by  Coysevoix. 

Under  a  great  ormolu  chandelier,  a  number  of  people 
in  theatrical  attire  were  gathered  about  a  graceful 
youth,  dressed  as  a  troubadour,  whose  voice  was  raised 
in  shrill  grievance  above  the  general  talk.  From  the 
group,  at  the  sight  of  the  visitors,  an  elder  woman 
detached  herself  and,  as  she  came  forward,  Harding 
was  struck  by  her  unusual  prettiness. 


THE  QUEST  41 

"  You  see,  Lena,"  Miss  Vanderhurst  remarked,  as 
they  exchanged  kisses,  "  we've  come  ahead  of  time,  as 
you  said  we  might.  I  wanted  Mr.  Harding  to  meet  you 
before  your  other  guests  arrive." 

"  I'm  so  glad  you  did,"  Mrs.  Eversley  smiled,  "  and 
that  Mr.  Harding  could  come.  We  hope  to  see  a  great 
deal  of  him  while  he's  in  Paris." 

Her  soft,  affected  voice  was  gracious,  but  he  noticed, 
as  she  gave  him  her  hand,  laden  with  rings,  that  she 
scrutinized  his  face  in  an  odd  way  that  made  him 
wonder  what  she  expected  to  read  there.  It  seemed 
to  him  the  quick  glance  was  half  apprehensive. 
Evidently  what  she  noted  relieved  her  mind,  for  she 
smiled  again,  more  sincerely;  then  led  them  towards 
the  salon,  saying  to  Miss  Vanderhurst : 

"  Such  a  time,  my  dear,  as  we've  been  having  over 
Mr.  Colston's  play.  The  house,  as  you  see,  has  been 
turned  into  a  green  room.  It's  all  the  fault  of  the 
wretched  costumier.  Mr.  Colston  gave  him  implicit 
directions  about  the  fifteenth  century  dress — even 
sketched  the  designs — and  when  the  things  came — 
at  the  last  moment,  of  course — he  found  that  his  was 
wrong  in  a  number  of  little  particulars.  He  takes  the 
principal  part,  and  he's  furious.  He  says  the  man's 
stupidity  has  ruined  the  play.  We  are  all,  I  assure 
you,  quite  worn  out  about  it ...  I  know  I  look  so." 

And  she  glanced,  with  a  pretty  air  of  martyrdom,  in 
a  pier  glass  before  which  she  had,  perhaps  not  by 
chance,  seated  herself. 

"  As  though  you  ever  looked  anything  but  charm- 
ing," Miss  Vanderhurst  returned,  as  one  administers  a 


42  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

bonbon  to  a  petted  child.     "  It's  the  wonderful  thing 
about  you." 

It  was,  indeed,  wonderful,  Harding  mentally  agreed, 
trying  to  realize  that  his  hostess  was — or  rather,  "  had 
been  " — a  contemporary  of  the  grey-haired  spinster 
who  faced  her.  In  the  discreet  light  of  the  white  and 
gold  salon,  Mrs.  Eversley  appeared  a  woman  of  thirty- 
five.  Yet,  if  she  and  Miss  Vanderhurst  had  been  "  girls 
together,"  twenty  years  more  must  be  nearer  the  truth. 
How  she  had  managed  so  to  arrest  time's  wing,  was 
beyond  his  masculine  surmise,  and  he  had  a  sudden 
respect  for  the  immortality  conferred  by  beauty  shops. 
Her  early  sorrow  had  apparently  left  no  mark  on  her 
bright-haired  loveliness,  which  had  the  blooming  fra- 
gility of  a  Sevres  shepherdess.  Her  air  was  one  of 
beguiling  sweetness,  but  he  was  not  quite  sure  that  she 
was  as  sweet  or  as  simple  as  she  seemed.  There  was 
something  about  it  that  seemed  as  unreal  as  her  bisque- 
like  blooms.  He  had  met  the  "  no  harm  in  her  " 
type  before  once  or  twice  in  his  life,  and  was  sensible  of 
the  havoc  the  harmlessness  often  wrought.  He  decided 
to  be  on  his  guard  until  he  knew  the  workings  of  this  fair 
instance  of  worldly  frivolousness. 

She  was  smiling — with  a  smile  he  could  fancy  one 
might  get  a  little  tired  of — in  acknowledgement  of  the 
spinster's  remark,  devoured  after  the  fashion  of  one 
accustomed  to  compliments,  yet  insatiable. 

"  That's  nice  of  you,  dear,"  ske  returned,  "  but  you 
know  you're  not  so  critical  as  the  rest  of  the  world." 
It  seemed  the  place  for  the  little  sigh  she  heaved.  "  But 
there,  I'm  boring  you  with  my  troubles.  It's  too 


THE  QUEST  .  43 

absurd,  isn't  it,  to  make  such  a  tragedy  of  ...  of  a 
comedy." 

She  seemed  rather  pleased  at  her  mot,  though  it  ended 
in  a  nervous  laugh.  It  was  plain,  from  the  sounds 
outside,  that  the  troubadour,  whom  Harding  guessed 
to  be  Percy  Colston,  had  quite  lost  his  temper.  His 
voice  arose  to  the  shrill  key  of  a  tearful,  spoiled  child. 

Mrs.  Eversley  made  an  attempt  to  ignore  the  dis- 
traction. She  talked  on  with  pretty  affectedness,  but 
it  was  obviously  forced.  Harding  marked  her  straying 
attention  and  wondered  if  his  hostess's  interest  in  the 
angry  youth  were  the  cause  of  the  uneasiness.  He 
conceived  her  to  be  not  above  a  tangle  of  small  love 
affairs,  although  he  held  her  incapable  of  serious 
sentiment.  A  real  heart-throb  would  have  the  effect, 
he  told  himself,  of  shattering  this  fragile  creature  of 
Sevres  into  a  myriad  bright  bits.  No  doubt  she  knew 
that  herself.  She  must  have  been  very  wonderful  in 
her  real  youth,  he  mused,  to  be  so  wonderful  in  the 
youth  she  had  invented  for  herself.  There  was  not  a 
line  on  her  face,  and  her  figure,  perfect  though  it  was, 
did  not  owe  everything  to  the  corset-maker.  Harding 
had  heard  that  hands  reveal  age  where  nothing  else 
does;  but  Mrs.  Eversley  appeared  proud  of  hers — she 
raised  one  to  arrange  a  strand  of  her  not  altogether 
convincing  blonde  hair.  The  sapphire  on  it  was 
hardly  brighter  than  her  blue  eyes,  which  seemed  to  ask 
masculine  protection. 

The  dispute  continued.  At  last  she  said,  as  though 
with  sudden  resolution : 

"  Really,  I  shall  have  to  go  and  see  if  I  can't  pour  oil 


44  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

on  the  troubled  waters.  Poor  Mr.  Colston's  nerves  are 
so  upset!  It's  his  artistic  temperament,  you  see. 
What  they  need,  the  lot  of  them,  is  their  tea.  .  .  . 
They're  quite  forgetting  people  will  soon  be  here. 
Come,  Mr.  Harding,  let  us  see  what's  to  be  done  with 
these  impossible  young  squabblers." 

Harding  followed  her  with  some  misgiving.  It  did 
not  appear  a  propitious  moment  for  the  introductions 
by  means  of  which  he  saw  his  hostess  planned  to  quell 
the  difficulties. 

The  poet  seemed  the  butt  of  general  badinage, 
which  he  was  taking  in  bad  part.  His  face  was  flushed 
with  vexation,  in  which  wounded  vanity  was  dominant. 
He  held  a  lute,  and  his  violet  costume  showed  off  his 
graceful  figure,  as  he  was  manifestly  aware.  Harding 
conceived  a  dislike  for  him,  though  he  admitted  the 
good  looks  Miss  Vanderhurst  had  described  in  an 
epicene  way.  Effeminacy  was  certainly  to  the  fore  at 
the  moment,  for  he  bit  at  his  lip  to  restrain  tears. 

As  they  approached,  Harding  heard  a  blond  English- 
man, in  a  herald's  surcoat  of  apple-green,  exclaim 
protestingly : 

"  I  say,  Percy,  do  be  a  man !  " 

"  I'm  not  a  man  .  .  .  I'm  a  poet !  "  was  the  peevish 
rejoinder,  and  at  this  the  group  broke  out  in  amused 
laughter. 

It  seemed  to  have  a  relieving  effect  on  the  group ;  and 
someone  ventured,  "  Well,  so  was  Shakespeare,  and  he 
didn't  make  a  row  over  costumes . . .  anything  did  to  put 
on,  you  know,  when  he  acted." 


THE  QUEST  45 

"  Anything  didn't  do,"  was  the  dramatist's  vehement 
retort,  "  as  Shakespeare  scholars  could  tell  you.  The 
original  folios  are  full  of  directions  about  wardrobes ..." 
the  rest  was  lost  in  the  animation  that  ensued. 

Mrs.  Eversley  paused  in  her  olive-branch-bearing, 
as  though  courage  failed  her. 

"  I  don't  wonder  he's  tired,"  she  said  under  cover  of 
the  babel,  "he's  worked  so  hard  to  make  his  piece  a 
success.  Miss  Fitzgerald,"  she  wrent  on,  as  a  last 
resource,  to  an  Irish  girl,  with  a  nimbus  of  red  hair  that 
an  Alma  Tadema  model  would  have  rejoiced  in,  "  will 
you  take  Mr.  Harding  out  in  the  garden  and  tell  Monica 
to  give  you  all  tea  ?  It's  much  more  to  the  point  than 
discussing  Shakespeare  at  such  a  time." 

Miss  Fitzgerald  made  an  expressive  face.  "  Monica 
is  the  only  one  who  seems  to  be  taking  things  calmly. 
I  wish  the  others  emulated  her." 

She  led  the  way  into  the  garden.  It  was  a  limited 
bit  of  plaisance,  sheltered  from  the  street  by  high,  ivy- 
mantled  walls.  The  spring  sunshine  had  drawn  from 
the  shaven  sod  an  intense  green,  in  contrast  with  the 
red-gravelled  paths,  which  formed  a  formal  design 
round  the  central  fountain — a  sunken  basin  with  a 
languid  flower  of  spray,  under  which  a  pair  of  bronze 
ducks  floated  complacently.  There  were  some  tubbed 
orange  trees,  and  a  moss-streaked  Flora,  in  a  bower, 
that  disconsolately  held  out  an  offering  of  fruit.  Hard- 
ing wondered  where  the  play  would  be  given — there 
was  no  evidence  of  a  theatre. 

Miss  Fitzgerald,  who  was  in  ordinary  dress,  led  him 


46  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

towards  a  marble  bench  on  which  Miss  Eversley  sat,  a 
tea  table  before  her.  She  seemed  to  him  quite  a  stately 
person  in  her  theatrical  garb.  The  dress  was  of  samite, 
ermine-edged  and  embroidered  with  silver  fleurs-de-lys, 
and  about  her  head  was  a  fillet  of  oak  leaves  tied  by 
long  white  ribbons.  Conversing  with  her  was  a  man 
of  heavy  build  and  artist-like  bushy  hair,  presented  as 
Monsieur  Fernet. 

After  a  moment  or  so  of  talk,  the  Frenchman  and 
Miss  Fitzgerald  moved  off,  to  join  several  actors  who 
issued  from  the  house,  leaving  Miss  Eversley  and  Hard- 
ing alone. 

As  he  took  the  glass  of  punch  she  served  him, 
Harding  admitted  that  Monica  Eversley  hardly  realized 
his  mental  sketch  of  her.  She  was  handsomer  than  he 
expected,  her  features  were  strong  and  regular  without 
being  tiresomely  correct.  Her  eyes  rather  took  his 
fancy  in  their  grey-green  of  a  moral  Felise  and  set  with 
short  jet  lashes.  Her  complexion  was  singular  in  its 
dull  nacre  tone,  that  did  not  seem  ill-health.  She  was 
serious,  certainly,  compared  with  her  mother,  and  he 
didn't  wonder  at  it.  ...  There  appeared  some  provoca- 
tion at  reaction  from  the  latter' s  artificiality.  Fri- 
volous mothers  frequently  produced  sober  daughters. 

She  shook  hands  with  him  in  a  cool,  detached 
way. 

"  You've  been  all  winter  in  Paris,  I  think  Miss 
Vanderhurst  said,"  she  remarked.  He  fancied  she  had 
no  great  interest  in  the  play;  she  had  listened  with 
what  was  almost  impatience  to  a  comment  he  had 
made  about  her  costume. 


THE  QUEST  47 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "  I  came  after  the  bad  weather  set 
in — hardly  a  time  for  favourable  impressions.  I  had 
the  romantic  idea  Paris  was  pre-empt  from  ordinary 
vicissitudes  of  climate.  What  a  different  place  it  is 
in  spring.  .  .  like  a  gay  finish  to  a  Scotch  sermon.  Yet 
it's  always  artistic,  isn't  it.  ...  There  were  winter  days 
that  were  worth  seeing  from  my  balcony  on  the  Seine.  I 
suppose  Whistler  is  responsible  for  them.  You  know 
he  discovered  the  Thames  fogs." 

If  he  expected  appreciation  of  his  effort  at  brightness, 
he  was  disappointed.  > 

"  You  live  on  the  quays,  then  ?  "  she  asked,  evidently 
only  to  make  conversation. 

"  Yes,  literally  on  them,  most  of  the  time.  That's 
where  I  do  my  idling.  I  picked  quarters  for  the  sake  of 
the  river;  I  like  it  more  than  anything  else  about  Paris. 
It  was  after  I  tried  pensions.  ...  I  thought  that  was  the 
way  to  learn  the  language.  I  didn't,  of  course.  Does 
one  ever  hear  French  in  Paris?  It  seems  a  dead 
tongue.  So,"  he  went  on  autobiographically,  in  spite 
of  her  formal  air,  "  being  bored  to  no  purpose  by 
superannuated  Anglo-Saxon  spinsters,  I  decided  on  my 
present  lodgings  rather  the  Grub  Street  sort,  but  with 
something  big  to  look  at  out  of  the  window — Notre 
Dame.  Mai  de  briques  is  an  intermittent  fever  of  mine. 
I  was  born  in  the  mountains — that's  why  I  get  Switzer 
longings  for  them.  Notre  Dame's  a  kind  of  Mont 
Blanc.  ...  I  work  off  the  feeling  by  climbing  it.  Miss 
Vanderhurst,"  he  added,  with  a  laugh,  "  thinks  it  a 
hopelessly  bohemian  part  of  the  city.  She  wants  me 
to  give  it  up  for  a  more  respectable  address." 


48  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

"  You  speak  as  though  you  meant  to  be  persuaded," 
she  returned,  with  a  slight  arch  of  her  fine  brows. 

"  Shouldn't  one  spare  the  feelings  of  friends?  "  he 
challenged  gaily. 

"  At  the  expense  of  one's  own  ?  I  thought  men 
claimed  the  privilege  of  ordering  their  own  lives." 

"  But  does  one  ever  order  them  ?  I  know  I've  never 
succeeded  in  ordering  mine,"  he  replied  with  a  shrug. 

"  I  don't  believe  you've  tried  .  .  .  that  is,  hard 
enough,"  was  her  frank  answer.  He  had  the  feeling,  as 
he  met  her  analyzing  eyes,  that  already  she  had  sized 
him  up  as  lacking  strength  of  purpose. 

Then,  as  if  she  preferred  more  impersonal  conversa- 
tion, she  remarked:  "  If  you  like  Nature,  you  have  the 
Bois — Parisians  are  very  fond  of  it." 

"  But  do  you  think  that  is  Nature,  really  ?  I  don't 
care  for  parks.  They  lack  genuineness  as  a  Watteau 
marquise  with  a  beribboned  crook  differs  from  a 
shepherdess  in  homespun.  Of  course,  the  public 
gardens  of  Paris  have  charm — but  it's  the  charm  of  a 
pretty  woman  done  to  death  by  her  coiffeur  and  mani- 
curist." 

"  Perhaps  that's  how  our  little  garden  strikes  you — 
it  rather  suggests  a  problem  in  Euclid." 

"  It's  the  setting  for  the  present  scene,  though, 
isn't  it?" 

And  he  regarded  the  costumed  figures  straying  about, 
or  seated  with  their  tea  cups,  which  Miss  Eversley, 
assisted  by  two  English  servants,  had  been  dispensing 
while  she  talked.  A  troubadour,  cigarette  in  mouth, 


THE  QUEST  49 

was  tuning  his  lute,  while  a  lady-in-waiting,  smelling 
a  bouquet  of  almond  blossoms,  chatted  mirthfully  with 
a  scarlet-robed  Cardinal.  Two  heralds  in  bright  sur- 
coats  amused  themselves  tossing  bits  of  biscuit  to  the 
ducks  come  to  the  fountain  brink. 

"  If  you  care  so  much  for  the  real  in  life,  it's  strange, 
isn't  it,  you  come  to  Paris?  "  Miss  Eversley  presently 
observed. 

He  thought  she  regarded  him  with  a  little  more 
interest. 

"  Why  does  one  do  anything  ?  It's,  perhaps,  because 
one's  always  seeking  what  one  never  finds,"  he  answered. 
"  And,  after  all,  Paris  has  its  own  kind  of  sincerities,  I 
suppose.  Artists,  you  know,  are  told  they  find  their 
salvation  here."  He  spoke  with  a  negligent  laugh. 

"  I  didn't  know  that  mere  places  offered  that,"  she 
returned. 

"  You  mean  one  ought  to  find  it  in  oneself  ?  It's  an 
ideal  way  of  looking  at  things,  I  admit.  Nevertheless, 
I  think  we  need  any  aid  we  can  wring  out  of  the  sorry 
scheme  of  things.  Life  at  best  isn't  a  particularly  easy 
matter.  The  Great  Gardener  has  lost  the  habit  of 
planting  primroses  along  one's  path.  The  twentieth 
century  primrose  is  a  hothouse  flower  .  .  .  only  pro- 
curable at  hothouse  prices." 

"  Why  depend  on  them,  then  ?  "  He  saw  that  his 
lightness  affected  her  unfavourably,  that  she  ranked" 
him  with  the  triflers  of  whom,  he  fancied,  she  had  seen 
much.  Her  coolness  rather  nettled  him,  and  he  went 
on  provokingly : 

E 


50  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

"  Still,  if  you  know  how  they're  grown,  I  wish  you'd 
give  me  the  horticultural  recipe — I'm  devoted  to  prim- 
roses." 

"  Are  you  ?  "  with  decided  sarcasm,  this  tune.  "I'm 
sorry  I  don't  kno'w  much  about  them."  She  left  the 
table,  adding,  "  I  see  that  it's  time  to  make  a  retreat — 
people  are  coming." 

And,  with  a  dismissing  nod,  she  moved  towards  the 
knot  of  actors  who  had  signalled  her. 

He  watched  her  go,  trailing  her  long  white  robes 
across  the  green,  a  scroll  clasped  against  her  breast, 
her  head,  crowned  by  its  ribboned  wreath,  held  rather 
proudly,  in  a  way  that  was  probably  natural  to  her. 
The  stately  costume  of  a  dead  day  seemed  to  isolate 
her  from  the  modern  world  with  its  materialism,  its 
vexing  problems,  its  moral  compromises.  His  gaze 
followed  her  until  she  disappeared,  with  the  other 
players,  through  an  ivy-framed  gate,  leading  to 
another  garden  where  the  spectacle  was  to  be  given; 
and  he  thought,  with  irony,  that  Wordsworth  would 
have  chosen  her  as  an  impersonation  of  his  "  stern 
daughter  of  the  voice  of  God."  Her  critical  com- 
posure left  him  with  vague  feelings  of  irritation,  and 
he  mused  on  her  lack  of  wit,  her  sober  way  of 
taking  the  irresponsible  utterances  of  casual  talk.  It 
,  was  rather  absurd  of  her.  She  seemed  to  enjoy  exer- 
cising le  plaisir  aristocratique  de  deplaire.  After  all, 
he  concluded,  it  was  only  her  good  looks  that  saved 
her. 

He  watched,  for  a  moment  or  so,  the  guests  that  now 


THE  QUEST  51 

poured  from  the  house.  He  was  about  to  seek 
Miss  Vanderhurst  when  he  saw  Miss  Fitzgerald 
approach,  and  her  bright  recognition  carried  him  to 
her  side.  Together  they  passed  into  the  next  garden, 
where,  on  an  ampler  lawn  an  open-air  stage  was 
erected,  with  cushioned  benches  for  the  spectators. 

"  And  why  aren't  you  acting,  too?  "  he  asked,  as 
they  found  seats. 

"  But  I  am,"  she  returned.  "  That  is,  I'm  supposed 
to  be  filling  the  role  of  half  hostess — a  sort  of  under- 
study to  Mrs.  Eversley,  as  the  play  is  being  given  in  our 
garden.  That's  the  limit  to  my  histrionic  talents. 
Besides,  Mr.  Colston  wanted  me  to  sing  in  one  of  the 
scenes  and  Mme.  Marchesi  forbids  my  using  my  voice 
in  public  yet.  You're  an  American,  aren't  you?"  she 
continued.  "  One  doesn't  often  meet  them  at  the 
Eversleys'.  The  only  one  in  favour  is  Mr.  Colston — 
and  he's  so  depayse  he  scarcely  counts." 

"But  why  are  they  excluded  from  grace?"  he 
asked,  rather  liking  her. 

"  I  don't  know  that  they  are  exactly  excluded.  It 
may  only  be  chance  one  doesn't  oftener  see  them  at  the 
house — though  I  shouldn't  say  Mrs.  Eversley  makes  a 
speciality  of  her  own  nation.  It's  rather  a  cosmopolitan 
crowd,  isn't  it  ?  ...  and  most  celebrities  of  one  sort 
or  another."  And  she  pointed  out  some  well-known 
figures  of  the  Paris  art-world.  "  I  don't  know  that  I 
care  much  for  artists,  do  you?  But  perhaps,"  she 
added  apologetically,  "  you  are  one  yourself,  though 
you  don't  look  it." 

E2 


52  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  enough  of  a  one  to  count,"  he  smiled. 
"  But  what's  wrong  with  them  ?  " 

"  Nothing;  except  one  finds  them  rather  self- 
absorbed,  as  a  rule.  Percy  Colston  is  an  aggravated 
case  of  it.  He's  like  the  ancient  mariner,  the  way  he 
holds  you  with  his  glittering  I.  But  that's  not  original. 
...  It's  what  he  said  of  some  one  who  out-talked  him. 
Art  theories  and  his  dog,  Chicot,  are  his  only  variations 
of  that  topic,  and  they  come  in  like  a  recurrent  theme 
in  a  Bach  fugue.  You  don't  know  Chicot  ?  Then  your 
Colston  education's  been  neglected.  If  anybody  ever 
elopes  with  poor  Percy — he's  in  deadly  fear  some  one 
will — Chicot  will  have  to  be  included,  like  Mrs.  Brown- 
ing's Flush."  And  she  laughed  gaily.  "  Oh,  Mr.  Colston 
is  quite  amusing,  I  assure  you.  Mrs.  Eversley  prizes 
him  above  her  best  china,  and,  of  course,  he  treats  her 
like  a  bad  child.  You  saw  how  he  forgot  himself  a 
while  ago,  I  suppose?  It's  the  only  way  he  ever  does 
forget  himself,  I  admit.  His  chord  of  self  isn't  the  kind 
that  trembles  out  of  sight.  He  and  Monica  don't 
get  on,  she  leaves  him  to  her  mother.  But  then  she's 
like  me — she  prefers  art  to  artists." 

"  Yes,  I've  heard  she  does  something  in  it — it's 
enamelling,  isn't  it?  " 

"  You  haven't  seen  her  things  in  this  year's  Salon, 
then?  She's  quite  successful,  you  know.  Her  work 
makes  her  independent  of  her  mother.  Mrs.  Eversley 
holds  it's  vulgar  to  want  to  earn  money.  But  I  think 
that's  because  she  urges  Monica  to  go  into  society 


THE  QUEST  53 

.  . .  now.  She  didn't  use  to,  and  that's  what's  so  strange. 
I  remember  when  I  first  came  to  Paris  I  thought  Mrs. 
Eversley  was  her  own  daughter,  so  to  speak.  She  never 
admitted  she  was  old  enough  to  have  one.  I  think 
Monica  must  have  been  locked  up  in  a  dark  room, 
those  days.  She's  just  begun  to  be  a  little  in  evidence." 

Harding  was  rather  taken  with  this  gay  frankness. 
"  But  is  Mrs.  Eversley  really  grown  up  ?  She's  astonish- 
ingly youthful,  I  thought." 

"  She's  astonishing  in  a  good  many  ways,"  was  the 
answer.  "  I  fancy  she  wants  Monica  to  marry.  It's 
one  way  of  solving  the  daughter  difficulty,  you  know." 

"  But  I  was  given  to  understand,"  he  answered, 
"  that  Miss  Eversley  was  in  the  way  of  solving  that 
for  herself.  She  struck  me  as  having  the  '  engaged ' 
air.  You  see  it  generally.  Such  girls  are  either  so  nice 
to  you  that  you  feel  it's  an  overflow,  or  they  snuff  you 
out  without  provocation.  Isn't  there  a  sculptor — 
a  Monsieur  Fernet — who's  being  attentive?  " 

"  Yes;  it's  the  man  she  was  talking  to  when  I 
introduced  you.  He's  the  pupil  of  Saint  Marceaux. 
He  came  back  from  Italy  this  winter.  Mr.  Colston  and 
he  have  an  apartment  together  in  the  rue  St.  Honore", 
though  I  don't  see  the  bond,  unless  it's  because  Percy 
poses  for  him.  He's  very  nice — I  mean  Monsieur  Fernet 
— though  he  stutters  a  bit.  Really  I  don't  know  whether 
it's  a  case  of  understanding  or  misunderstanding 
between  him  and  Monica.  It's  gone  on  for  years,  any- 
way. Perhaps  it's  because  he's  tongue-tied  it  hasn't 


54  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

come  to  anything.  You  know  if  you  hesitate  you're 
lost.  Though  I  think  it's  Percy  Colston  that's  the 
trouble.  It's  like  him  to  interfere,"  she  concluded,  a 
little  spitefully. 

"  But  why  should  he  ?  " 

"  Oh,  but  don't  you  see?  "  And  she  regarded  him 
with  amused  eyes.  "  If  Monica  married  Monsieur 
Fernet,  it  would  break  up  their  household.  It's  a 
selfish  way  for  Percy  to  look  at  it  ...  but  then  he's  a 
poet.  He  rules  all  his  friends,  you  know.  It  would  be 
such  a  solution  if  only  he'd  marry  Mrs.  Eversley.  Of 
course,  there's  the  difference  of  their  ages." 

And  she  sighed  with  an  air  that  suggested  she  would 
like  to  give  points  to  Providence. 

"  But  Mrs.  Eversley  doesn't  show  her  age." 

"  Yes;  but  I  don't  know  that  she  wants  to  marry. 
She  might  be  a  kind  of  married  older  sister — fill  the 
place  vacated  by  poor  Kate  Colston.  You  ought  to 
have  known  his  sister  Kate.  They  had  a  flat  together — 
hardly  big  enough  for  one.  They  were  always  enter- 
taining, however,  with  screens  and  things,  to  hide  the 
makeshifts.  They  had  to  deceive  to  receive,  I  suppose 
you'd  say.  And  how  people  did  fall  over  the  decep- 
tions !  "  She  laughed  with  the  recollection.  "  There  was 
a  sword  over  the  fireplace  that  belonged  to  his  father, 
a  famous  colonel  in  your  civil  war.  We  called  it  le 
sabre  de  mon  pere,  for  Ajax's  in  La  Belle  Helene,  Percy 
was  so  awfully  proud  of  it.  Later,  he  was  left  a  legacy, 
and  everything  prospered  except  poor  Kate.  .  .  .  She 


THE  QUEST  55 

died,  just  when  she  was  no  longer  needed.  But  she 
was  always  so  accommodating !  " 

Miss  Fitzgerald's  reminiscences  were  interrupted 
by  the  appearance  of  a  jester,  jingling  his  bells  for 
attention.  He  delivered  a  prologue  in  verse.  After 
which  the  audience  was  treated  to  a  Court  of  Love, 
in  which  the  r61e  of  the  successful  candidate  for  poetical 
honours  was  filled  by  the  author.  He  received  the 
prize — a  golden  eglantine — from  Monica  Eversley  as 
Queen  of  Love,  surrounded  by  her  ladies.  The  piece 
was  a  graceful  composition,  done  in  affected,  archaic 
style,  and  it  was  heartily  applauded. 

"  How  well  Monica  acted,"  Miss  Fitzgerald  com- 
mented, after  the  players  retreated.  "  Especially  when 
one  knows  how  she  hated  taking  the  part.  It  required 
art  for  her  to  crown  Percy  Colston  in  that  smiling  way. 
But  here  comes  Isadore  Duncan,"  she  added,  as  she 
dipped  into  an  ice  a  servant  had  handed  her,"j"  I  love 
her,  don't  you  ?  " 

The  dancer  was  arrayed  as  Primavera,  in  a  robe  of 
pale  mauve,  embroidered  with  song-birds.  In  her  hair 
were  daisies  and  daffodils,  and  about  her  neck  a  collar 
of  violets.  She  held  a  cage  of  silver  wire,  filled  with 
linnets,  that  she  released,  with  charming  gestures  of 
farewell.  It  was  a  delicious  pantomime,  in  the  light 
of  the  declining  spring  afternoon,  in  which  the 
veritable  spirit  of  the  year  seemed  come  into  the  garden. 

The  dance  finished  the  performance,  and  the 
audience,  breaking  the  spell  which  the  artists  had  cast 


56  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

on  it,  arose,  and  dispersing,  fell  into  gossiping  groups. 
The  actors  appeared  to  receive  congratulations. 
Harding,  joining  Miss  Vanderhurst,  went  up  to  pay 
his  compliments  to  his  hostess. 

Mrs.  Eversley  had,  evidently,  recovered  her  equan- 
imity. The  success  of  the  entertainment  seemed  to 
compensate  her  for  the  jars  that  had  preceded  it. 

"  Yes,  I  think  these  out-door  pieces  are  attractive," 
she  remarked  radiantly.  "  And  then  the  weather  was 
so  perfect.  You  have  left  me  your  address, 
Mr.  Harding  ?  I  shall  want  you,  you  know,  to  come  to 
dine  with  me  soon." 

Miss  Vanderhurst  was  preoccupied  on  the  way  back 
to  her  hotel. 

"  Miss  Fitzgerald  was  speaking  to  me  of  Monsieur 
Fernet  and  Miss  Eversley,"  Harding  observed  to  break 
the  silence.  "  She  rather  suggested  there  was  some 
impediment.  ..." 

Miss  Vanderhurst  glanced  at  him  inquisitively. 
"I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  it  can  be,"  she  said, 
rather  tartly.  "  Unless  it's  in  his  speech  .  .  .  Monsieur 
Fernet  stutters,  I  believe.  It  would  be  an  excellent 
match.  He's  well-bred,  a  sculptor  of  note,  and  quite 
comfortably  off.  But  Monica  is  such  a  strange  girl .  .  . 
I  don't  know  that  I  at  all  understand  her.  I  wish  there 
was  more  congeniality  between  her  and  her  mother. 
How  did  she  impress  you  ?  " 

"  Well,  frankly,"  he  laughed,  "  she  depressed  me 
more  than  impressed  me.  I  felt  terribly  inferior, 


THE  QUEST  57 

somehow.  She's  quite  handsome,  but  I  wonder  if  a 
mere  mortal  could  live  up  to  her." 

"  Don't  try,"  she  returned  drily.  "  Let  Lena  live 
up  to  you.  ...  It  would  be  better  for  her  than  living 
down  to  Percy  Colston.  I  wish,  for  my  sake,  you'd 
promise  to  be  nice  to  Lena — it's  one  reason  why  I 
wanted  you  to  meet  her." 

Her  worldly  eyes  were  quite  earnest  about  it,  as  she 
turned  them  on  him. 

"  Of  course,  I  will,  if  you  ask  it,"  he  answered. 


CHAPTER  IV 

HARDING  had  expected  the  fair  spring  weather  would 
inspire  him  in  writing  his  book;  but  it  was  delightful 
to  be  out-of-doors,  and  besides  that  temptation,  Miss 
Vanderhurst  pre-empted  his  time  during  her  pause 
in  Paris.  The  spinster  had  resolved  to  take  him 
socially  in  hand.  The  world,  to  her,  was  not  allied 
to  the  flesh  and  the  twentieth-century  substitute  for 
the  devil.  This  last  assailed  those  who  kept  to  bohemian 
quarters  and  neglected  people  dwelling  in  the  sacred 
Etoile  district.  It  was  a  great  pity,  she  thought,  that 
he  did  not  interest  himself  in  the  "  right  sort  of  people." 
That  class — certainly  not  to  be  found  in  places  where, 
apparently,  Harding  passed  his  time — stood  as  the 
panacea  for  everything.  They  kept  one  cheerful, 
for  society  was  cheerfulness;  to  go  about,  demanded 
thinking  of  others  instead  of  oneself.  Accordingly  she 
multiplied  engagements  with  him,  weaving  in  to  her 
plans  for  his  good  the  hope  that  he  might  encounter 
someone  better  fitted  to  arouse  his  sentiment  than 
Miss  Buttercup  Baxter.  She  had  not  been  serious  in 
recommending  an  alliance  between  Harding  and  the 
tea  merchant's  daughter  .  .  .  she  didn't  see  why  he 
couldn't  do  better  for  himself  than  that.  Fortunately, 
there  were  a  few  nice  girls  left  who  had  fortune.  And 
Buttercup  didn't  strike  her  as  "  nice,"  irrespective  of 


THE  QUEST  59 

the  tea  trade.  So  when,  one  day,  Harding  spoke  of 
having  an  engagement  with  that  young  woman  to  go 
to  the  races,  she  lifted  her  brows  rather  superciliously. 

"  You  really  are  in  love  with  her,  then  ?  "  she 
demanded;  and  at  his  flushed  denial,  she  smiled  in  a 
way  that  left  him  small  doubt  as  to  what  she  concluded 
to  be  the  object  of  his  attentions. 

His  acquaintance  with  Miss  Buttercup  and  her 
chaperoning  relative  dated  from  the  previous  autumn, 
when  they  had  crossed  on  the  same  steamer  from  New 
York  to  Genoa,  where  Harding  parted  from  them  to 
go  on  to  Paris.  The  ten  days  on  board  had  made  him 
and  Buttercup  rather  intimate.  Intimacy  with  that 
young  woman  was  not  a  difficult  thing.  She  had  a 
hearty  way  of  taking  people  that  easily  won  her 
friends;  and  if  he  found  her  Americanism  a  trifle 
crude,  on  the  other  hand  her  naive  relish  of  life,  her 
good-natured,  somewhat  high-keyed  laughter,  which 
went  well  with  her  florid  youth,  made  her  an  agreeable 
companion  on  an  ocean  trip.  When  later  she  appeared 
in  Paris,  he  saw  a  good  deal  of  her  from  time  to  time. 
Miss  Baxter,  on  discovering  him  to  be  a  writer,  pro- 
fessed delight.  She  "  hailed,"  as  she  would  have  said, 
from  Boston,  where  she  heard  much  but  saw  little  of 
its  literary  set,  and  Harding's  claim  to  authorship 
gave  him  some  importance  in  her  eyes.  She  demanded 
his  Adonis  -  Garden  with  a  dedicatory  fly-leaf,  and 
spoke  so  enthusiastically  of  the  verses  that  his  regard 
for  her  sensibly  increased.  The  idea  of  proposing  to 
her  began  to  figure  vaguely  in  his  thoughts.  That  her 


60  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

father  was  "  absurdly  rich,"  to  use  Miss  Vander- 
hurst's  phrase,  was  a  notorious  fact.  The  branch 
houses  of  Hiram  Baxter  and  Co.,  scattered  over  the 
United  States,  testified  eloquently  to  that.  Butter- 
cup herself  took  pride  in  the  knowledge,  to  the  extent 
of  ingenuously  counting  the  advertisements  of 
"  Baxter's  Surpassing  Ceylon  "  that,  decorating  the 
hoardings  of  European  capitals,  proclaimed  the 
world-wide  fame  of  her  papa's  product.  She  and  her 
aunt,  Miss  Zenobia,  were  wont  to  make  wry  faces 
when  served  any  other  brand. 

Harding  was  far  from  thinking  he  was  of  the  class 
of  vulgar  fortune  hunters.  He  told  himself  that 
marriage  with  Buttercup  was  out  of  the  question  unless 
sentiment  warranted  it.  His  sentiments  so  far,  he 
was  obliged  to  admit,  were  of  a  rather  lukewarm  order; 
but  he  liked  her,  and  much  lay  in  propinquity.  .  .  . 
If  he  had  no  great  love  to  offer,  Miss  Buttercup  did 
not,  on  her  side,  seem  the  girl  to  demand  it.  Practical 
advantages,  certainly,  recommended  the  suit.  From 
early  youth  he  had  been  counselled  by  interested 
friends  to  make  a  marriage  that  would  eliminate  the 
grosser  anxieties  of  life.  He  had  resented  these 
suggestions  as  a  reflection  on  his  capacity  to  work 
out  his  salvation  unaided.  But  an  increase  of  his 
pessimistic  disbelief  in  himself  and  his  powers,  born 
from  years  of  dreary  slavery  at  his  desk,  had  brought 
him  to  look  more  favourably  on  worldly  advice;  and 
experience  provoked  in  him  the  dull  conviction  that 
the  altitudes  of  art  towards  which  his  spirit  strained  in 


THE  QUEST  61 

theory,  were  left  like  mountain  peaks  to  a  glacial 
unrewarded  isolation.  It  was  not  the  highest  in  art 
that  the  world  wanted  or  was  willing  to  pay  for.  A 
marriage  of  ease  would  leave  him  free  to  devote  him- 
self to  his  best,  without  considering  the  depressing 
money  side  of  literary  occupation.  His  imagination, 
in  tired  overworked  moments,  had  therefore  played 
more  and  more  with  the  idea.  Yet  he  found  himself 
strangely  reluctant  to  take  the  decisive  step,  even  in 
the  face  of  what  seemed  encouragement  on  the  young 
woman's  part. 

Things  about  the  Baxters  had,  indeed,  their  reaction- 
ary effect  upon  him,  causing  him  to  wonder  if,  after 
all,  he  could  endure  the  family  milieu.  Miss  Zenobia 
was  rather  an  impossible  person,  and  her  vulgarities 
had,  he  felt,  corrupted  her  niece.  The  day  at  Auteuil 
proved  an  unfortunate  excursion  in  that  respect, 
tending  to  check  his  suitor  enthusiasms.  The  weather 
promised  fair,  and  his  hostesses,  who  had  engaged 
a  drag,  were  resplendent  in  fresh  rue  de  la  Paix  toil- 
ettes. After  they  got  in  the  jam  of  vehicles  at  the  race, 
a  sudden  storm  came  up,  and  everybody  was  drenched 
to  the  skin.  Miss  Zenobia  and  her  niece  took  the 
accident  tragically,  as  if  it  had  been  a  crash  in  the  tea 
trade.  The  scarlet  poppies  in  the  stout  spinster's  hat 
trickled  down  in  blood-like  drops  as,  object  of  grim 
dejection,  she  sat  mopping  her  cheeks  with  her  hand- 
kerchief. It  was  plain  she  darkly  reckoned  the  cost 
represented  by  the  ruin  of  her  clothes.  Buttercup 
made  only  the  sickliest  attempts  to  meet  the  good 


62  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

humour  of  her  guests,  one  of  whom,  a  girl  whose 
wilted  finery  was  probably  her  only  gala  dress,  amused 
herself  feeding  near-by  horses  with  cherries.  Harding 
scarcely  knew  which  was  the  worse  damper — the 
shower  or  his  hostesses;  and  he  told  himself  the 
Baxters  sometimes  failed  to  live  up  to  the  cheerful 
quality  of  their  surpassing  Ceylon.  It  was  one  of  the 
occasions,  he  confessed,  when  Miss  Buttercup  was  dis- 
illusioning; and  he  parted  from  her  and  her  aunt 
rather  coldly. 

Was  it  his  punishment  for  not  taking  the  girls  the 
gods  provide,  that  events  followed  which  put  a  sudden 
end  to  his  social  idlings  ? 

The  newspaper  for  which  he  worked  had  left  him 
free,  seemingly,  to  follow  his  own  whims  in  the  corre- 
spondence he  furnished  weekly.  Hearing  nothing  from 
it,  beyond  the  formal  word  that  accompanied  the 
periodic  cheque,  he  concluded  that  his  work  gave 
satisfaction  to  the  managing  editor  who  passed  on  such 
things.  Apparent  security  about  the  position  had  not 
made  him  lax  in  his  fashion  of  writing — he  had  what 
is  called  the  "  literary  conscience  "  and  he  always  used 
his  pen  with  care — but  the  eternal  search  after  subject- 
matter  was  fatiguing  and  he  was  inclined  to  make  the 
most  of  what  he  casually  gleaned.  He  had  not,  he  knew, 
the  "  journalistic  nose,"  to  employ  the  odious  office 
word,  for  news,  and  when  it  came  to  burrowing  he 
was  perhaps  rather  negligent.  It  was  all  part  of  the 
emptiness  of  what  weighed  on  his  spirit  as  a  means 
of  livelihood.  He  tried  to  take  it  seriously,  because 


THE  QUEST  63 

I 

what  hung  on  it  was  serious;   and  the  thought  that  the 

rest  of  his  days  might  be  concerned  with  that  sort 
of  task,  made  him  sigh  often  with  weariness  of  spirit. 

But  the  day  after  Miss  Vanderhurst  departed  from 
Paris  with  many  injunctions  as  to  pursuing  the  social 
path  she  had  cleared  for  him,  arrived  a  letter  from  his 
paper  in  which  his  correspondence  work  was  criticized 
for  lacking  "  snappiness "  and  "  general  interest," 
and  he  read  between  the  lines  that  his  recall  to  the 
staff  position  was  imminent. 

The  paper,  he  reflected,  had  repented  of  having  given 
him  this  chance  to  rejuvenate  his  faculties,  widen  his 
experience,  enrich  his  taste — advantages  which  his 
co-workers  could  not  enjoy.  The  leave-of -absence 
had  only  been  a  Greek  gift.  It  supplied  his  employer 
with  the  excuse  to  try  someone  else  in  the  position 
he  had  so  long  filled.  The  new  candidate  had  probably 
made  good  with  the  opportunity.  "  Fresh  blood," 
that  was  journalism's  shibboleth.  It  was  what  the 
paper  continually  demanded  to  keep  its  vigour  and 
brightness  in  competition  with  rivals.  How  many  had 
come  and  gone  in  the  office  since  he  had  entered, 
simulating  coolness,  nervous  over  the  novel  require- 
ments of  them !  Young  as  he  was,  he  was  almost  the 
doyen  of  the  editorial  staff — a  dangerous  fact,  in  its 
constant  reminder  to  the  paper  that  he  was  reaching 
the  end  of  usefulness.  Ten  years,  it  was  reckoned,  wore 
out  a  New  York  journalist.  And  after  that?  .  .  .  Who 
indeed,  troubled  to  discover  what  became  of  the 
voluntarily  departing  or  the  discharged  ?  Faithfulness 


64  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

to  one's  post  did  not  count.  ...  He  was  well  aware  of 
that.  There  was  even  such  a  thing  as  being  too  faithful. 
His  chief  often  referred  disparagingly  to  those  who 
adhered  to  the  paper  overlong,  as  if  it  were  a  self- 
confessed  incompetence. 

Perhaps  the  decision  which  now  appeared  to  Harding 
was  as  much  necessity  as  choice.  Not  to  evolve  out  of 
the  old  worn  sphere  into  a  newer,  higher  one,  was,  in 
effect,  to  retrograde  into  the  ranks  of  those  who, 
venturing  nothing,  lost  all. 

He  would  throw  off  the  yoke  of  journalism,  stay  on  in 
Paris,  fight  fortune  with  his  only  weapon,  what 
remained  of  early  artistic  impulse.  And  if  he  failed? 
Well,  what  fairer  place  to  fail  in  than  Paris,  eloquent 
in  its  soft  spring  beauty,  that  seemed  to  say  if  he  could 
only  believe  in  himself,  all  would  yet  be  well. 

Before  committing  himself  to  the  irrevocable,  and 
rather  to  soothe  his  conscience  than  to  modify  his 
decision,  he  went  in  to  see  a  friend  whom  he  had  made 
since  coming  to  Paris.  Nicolls  was  a  young  Englishman 
who  filled  the  post  of  city  editor  on  the  Paris  Gazette, 
a  weekly  journal  devoted  to  the  interests  of  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  traveller;  and  Harding  was  in  the  habit  of  calling 
on  him  once  or  twice  a  week  to  glance  over  the  news- 
papers there  on  file  and  discuss  matters  connected  with 
his  journalistic  work.  He  found  Nicolls  at  a  desk, 
strewn  with  copy  just  from  the  printer.  Nicolls  was 
always  toiling.  He  reminded  Harding  of  Emerson's 
saying  that  steam  was  only  another  name  for  an 
Englishman.  Harding  rather  envied  him  his  energy 


THE  QUEST  65 

and  determined  ambitions;  success  was  written  all 
over  him,  and  he  never  complained  of  life's  difficulties. 
He  had  lived  his  life  out  of  England,  Harding  knew; 
his  father,  a  collector  for  the  British  Museum,  had  died 
leaving  him  to  his  own  resources.  Without  being  good- 
looking  he  had  something  in  his  face  which  attracted; 
it  was  perhaps  his  sincere  blue  eyes,  the  quiet  sturdiness 
of  his  personality. 

Nicolls  had,  as  usual,  a  suggestion  for  the  next  news- 
paper article — Harding  owed  much  to  the  other's 
interest  in  his  work ;  he  also  had  some  theatre  tickets  for 
him.  But  Harding  came  quickly  to  his  point,  showing 
the  letter  just  received  from  the  New  York  paper. 

"  Well,"  Nicolls  commented,  "  it  appears  a  simple 
matter.  All  you  have  to  do  is  to  adapt  yourself  to  their 
demands.  If  the  Salon  isn't '  snappy  '  enough  for  them, 
then  interview  Edmond  Blanc's  jockey." 

"  One  gets  so  infernally  tired  of  '  adapting  '  oneself." 
Harding  said,  impatiently.  "  I've  done  nothing  else 
all  my  life.  I've  done  it  badly,  I  suppose,  like  a  dog 
that  tries  to  stand  on  its  head,  yet  as  well  as  most 
people  filling  roles  not  fitted  to  them.  And  what's  come 
of  it  ?  Nothing  beyond  putting  bread  in  one's  mouth, 
and  none  too  much  of  that,  either.  And  in  the  mean- 
time, everything  that  really  matters  to  one  is  left  to 
waste  away.  You  can  hardly  deny  that  that  sort  of 
suppression  is  bad  .  .  .  that  it  ends  in  one  getting 
atrophied,  going  on  day  after  day,  year  after  year  like 
this.  That's  the  trouble  with  '  adapting.' . . .  One  adapts 
too  well."  And  his  face  gleamed  with  rebellion. 

F 


66 

"  I  don't  know  about  that."  Nicolls  objected 
indulgently.  "  It's  a  good  deal  in  the  way  one  takes 
things.  There's  generally  something  to  be  got  from 
even  the  worst  sort  of  sweating.  That's  where  one's 
cleverness  comes  in.  And  you're  clever  enough, 
Harding." 

He  spoke  soberly,  seeing  that  the  other  was  depressed. 
It  was  not  the  first  time  they  had  argued  over  these 
problems,  without  altering  their  opposing  view  of  life. 

"  That's  a  way  of  saying  one  has  only  to  '  do  one's 
duty  '  to  get  a  pleasant  pat  from  Providence  in  the 
end."  And  Harding  thought  of  the  hopeful  axioms  of 
youth  of  which  he  had  discovered  the  hollowness.  He 
was  silent  a  moment,  struggling  with  memories  of  futile 
effort,  yet  lured  by  the  vision  of  independence.  He 
felt  as  though  it  was  the  moment  when  he  must 
challenge  fate  or  submit  to  a  life  of  drudgery. 

"I'm  tired  of  all  this  bowing  in  the  house  of  Rim- 
mon,"  he  continued,  finding  resolve  come  with  his 
words.  "  I've  had  to  think,  write,  breathe  the  meaning- 
less and  commonplace  so  long,  I've  half  lost  my  sight, 
mentally,  like  fish  in  underground  streams.  One  has 
to  cut  loose  from  the  compromise,  or  become  a  com- 
promise oneself.  I  wasn't  made  for  journalism, 
Nicolls.  I'd  like  to  find  out  what  I  was  made  for  .  .  . 
if  there's  any  real  art  in  me,  for  instance.  No,  there's 
nothing  to  do,  that  I  can  see,  but  throw  up  the  job — 
tell  the  paper  I  refuse  to  write  the  twaddle  they  demand. 
I  want  to  be  free,  trust  to  my  best.  If  I  don't  succeed, 
it'll  be  failing,  at  all  events,  in  a  decent  cause.  One 


THE  QUEST  67 

should  know  how  to  fail,  I  suppose,  as  well  as  how  to 
succeed,"  he  concluded  bitterly. 

"  But  my  dear  fellow,"  Nicolls  remonstrated,  "  your 
way  of  looking  at  practical  situations  is  so  needlessly 
dramatic.  Why  suddenly,  without  means  to  fall  back 
on — you  told  me  that  you  depend  on  your  salary — 
throw  up  the  thing  that  keeps  you  afloat,  to  go  into 
such  an  uncertain  field  as  literature?  You  ought  to 
wait,  I  should  say,  until  you've  tested  what  you  can 
do  there.  Patience  is  a  great  thing.  .  .  .  You  know  the 
adage." 

"That  everything  comes  to  him  who  waits?" 
Harding  smiled  scornfully.  "  On  the  contrary,  nothing 
comes  to  him  who  waits  .  .  .  too  long.  Better  take  the 
plunge  and  be  done  with  it."  And  he  rose,  saying  more 
lightly:  "But  I'm  keeping  your  printer  waiting. 
Nothing  will  come  to  him,  any  way,  if  I  go  on  talking." 

And  with  a  laugh  that  had  a  dash  of  bravado,  he 
shook  hands  and  left  the  office. 

The  laugh  was  the  froth,  so  to  speak,  on  the  ebullition 
of  his  self  persuasive  arguments.  The  ebullition  died 
almost  as  quickly  as  the  laugh  did;  and  in  the  street 
he  experienced  some  reaction  as  to  his  hastily-made 
vow  of  independence.  Yet  he  knew  that  what  he 
uttered,  however  rhetorically  phrased,  was  less  void 
of  reason  than  he  confessed.  Nicolls,  after  all,  was 
ignorant  of  the  true  position  in  which  he  stood,  although 
he  might  partly  have  guessed  from  Harding's  fits  of 
gloom,  inexplicable  to  the  other's  excellent  balance 
of  mind  unless  based  on  some  real  difficulty. 

F2 


68  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

Paris  struck  him  as  never  lovelier  than  in  its  misty 
spring-time  veil,  with  the  afternoon  sun  raying  from 
piled-up  clouds  behind  the  distant  Trocadero.  He 
paused,  on  his  way  across  the  Seine,  to  watch  the  trim 
little  steamboats  plying  up  and  down  the  current,  the 
quivering  poplars  lining  the  river-banks,  the  glittering 
domes  and  marble  shafts  of  a  city  that  weaves  its 
wizardry  over  the  heart  of  beauty  lovers  and  the  river 
with  its  ripples  and  eddyings,  like  some  finger  writing 
ever  obliterated  sentences  in  some  unknown  language. 

Harding,  leaning  against  the  stone  parapets,  mused 
on  destiny  and  what  it  might  hold  for  him.  Was  it 
better  to  remain  and  strive  for  "  the  best  "  in  him,  as 
he  expressed  it  to  Nicolls,  or  to  return  to  a  grimed 
newspaper  office  in  a  Moloch-like  metropolis  which  had 
crushed  out  his  youth  and  ambition?  He  wished, 
wearily,  that  some  counselling  inner  voice  could  tell 
him  in  what  lay  wisdom.  The  old  fear  of  life  was  on  him, 
that  strange,  corrupting  doubt  of  himself  and  his 
fortune,  the  feeling  that  in  nothing  he  might  do  dwelt 
salvation.  Nicolls  had  spoken  of  the  "  uncertainty  of 
literature."  .  .  .  What  he  had  meant  was  the  defeating 
uncertainty  in  himself.  Yes,  he  lauded,  in  his  talk  with 
his  friend,  the  solution  to  be  found  in  art.  Had  it  any  ? 
What  was  art  but  the  melancholy  of  the  unattainable  ? 
Why  add  to  the  Niagara  of  books  that  had  poured  on 
his  head  as  he  sat  at  his  desk,  year  in  and  year  out, 
writing  [about  them  as  if  the  ephemeral  flood  of  print 
meant  anything  really  to  anybody?  What  heartache 
of  vain  endeavour  many  of  them  represented,  what 


THE  QUEST  69 

dreams  of  fame  unrealized,  what  sacrifices  of  youth, 
what  starvation  on  the  part  of  those  who  had  held 
the  pen !  What  vanity  to  suppose  it  might  be  given  to 
him  to  achieve  something  worthy  of  even  passing 
comment.  And  yet  not  to  have  lived  towards  some 
higher  hope,  not  to  have  tried  to  lift  himself  above  the 
sordidness  of  unmeaning  drudgery.  .  .  . 

Wavering  between  fear  and  hope  of  the  future,  the 
resolve  to  free  himself  from  journalistic  servitude 
seemed  the  most  momentous  he  had  ever  made.  He 
had  grasped  the  spar  that  had  floated  to  him  on  the  sea 
of  struggle,  with  the  relief  of  a  drowning  man;  and  he 
had  clung  to  it  as  the  only  thing  between  him  and  the 
gulf  into  which  he  had  nearly  sunk.  He  was  astonished 
at  his  present  temerity.  He  braced  himself  by  a  drink 
at  a  boulevard  cafe,  and  wrote  his  letter  to  the  paper; 
when  he  added  his  signature,  he  looked  on  it  as  if  it 
were  his  death  warrant. 

Having  dropped  the  envelope  in  a  letter  box,  he 
experienced  a  reaction  which  demanded  something  to 
occupy  his  mind.  He  dined  at  a  good  restaurant  as  part 
of  his  defiant  attitude  towards  fate ;  and  then  consulted, 
on  returning  to  the  street,  a  theatrical  column.  He 
saw  that  (Edipe  Roi  was  to  be  given  that  night  by 
the  Comedie  Fran£aise  with  Mounet  Sully,  whom  he 
admired,  in  the  title  rdle. 

He  afterwards  wondered  whether  something  more 
than  chance  had  governed  his  selection  of  the  spectacle 
on  the  unforgettable  night.  It  was  certainly  not  a 
piece  calculated  to  encourage  optimism,  he  reflected, 


70  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

as  he  climbed  to  his  inexpensive  gallery  seat,  which  he 
had  chosen  less  from  economy  than  to  be  removed 
from  the  distracting  worldliness  of  the  better  part  of 
the  house.  The  play  was  Jules  Lacroix's  version  of 
(Edipus  Tyrannus,  an  adaptation  rather  than  a 
translation;  and  he  had  read  it  although  he  had  never 
before  seen  it  on  the  stage. 

The  polite  language  of  the  French  had  not  robbed 
the  drama  of  its  seizing  classic  power.  As  he  sat, 
detached  from  his  surroundings,  in  the  grateful 
shadow,  it  seemed  to  Harding  that  life  towered  in 
majestic  outline,  that  small  unessential  emotions  were 
engulfed  in  a  great  elemental  ocean.  He  felt  lifted, 
purged,  to  use  the  old  phrase,  made  to  face  the  reve- 
lation of  infinitely  tragic  things.  It  was  as  if  the  hand 
of  Sophocles  snatched  from  existence  the  veil  of  pre- 
tence, showing  the  vast,  appalling  skeleton  of  its 
fundamental  facts.  The  voice  of  the  drama,  rising  out 
of  the  deepest  recess  of  life,  wandered  on,  a  hopeless  cry 
of  the  human,  through  all  space  and  for  all  time. 
Only  triumphant  Christian  faith  could,  indeed,  dull 
the  ear  to  that  profound  lamentation  of  Greek 
philosophy — and  Harding  had  no  such  faith. 

The  piece  was  superbly  set.  The  curtain  rose  on  the 
stately  palace  front  where  (Edipus  appeared  to  address 
his  people,  come  to  implore  his  aid  in  arresting  the 
dreadful  plague  that  devoured  the  city.  Opposite  was 
the  temple  of  Apollo,  and  the  details  of  ancient  Thebes 
rose  on  the  background.  It  was  dusk,  an  oppressive, 
fever-tainted  dusk,  that  mounted  to  purple  daybreak 


THE  QUEST  71 

as  Mounet  Sully 's  majestic,  mantled  form  emerged 
through  the  palace  portals.  Harding  was  familiar  with 
the  circumstances  that  preceded  the  drama;  how 
(Edipus,  the  son  of  Laius  and  Jocasta,  had,  because  of 
what  the  oracles  predicted,  been  exposed  as  a  babe  on 
the  mountains;  and  had  there  been  rescued  by  a 
shepherd;  had,  in  manhood,  on  the  road  to  Thebes, 
unwittingly  slain  his  own  father  in  a  quarrel;  how, 
in  solving  the  sphinx's  riddle  and  thus  ridding  the  city 
from  that  ravening  chimera,  he  had  been  hailed  king, 
and  married  his  own  mother,  the  widowed  Jocasta, 
dwelling  with  her  in  tranquil  ignorance  of  his  lineage 
until  the  plague  had  broken  out  which  was  to  bring 
about  an  awful  knowledge  of  his  sacrilege. 

It  is  here  that  the  play  begins,  with  the  efforts  of 
(Edipus  to  find  and  punish  the  slayer  of  Laius.  Step  by 
step  the  evidence  is  pieced  together,  until  the  fact  is 
borne  home  on  the  King  that  it  is  he  himself  who  is 
the  author  of  the  deed.  Jocasta,  hearing  the  frightful 
truth,  disappears,  with  an  exclamation  of  horror,  into 
the  palace,  when  comes  a  messenger  to  announce 
that  she  has  hanged  herself.  (Edipus,  who  has  followed 
her,  while  the  chorus  fills  the  air  with  exclamations, 
staggers  forth,  having  blinded  his  eyes  with  a  gold 
ornament  plucked  from  Jocasta' s  hair,  and  uttering 
frightful  cries.  Then,  after  a  heart-breaking  parting 
from  his  children,  he  goes  forth,  a  wanderer  to  expiate 
his  crimes,  victim  of  the  dark  machinations  of  fate, 
sport  of  a  merciless  destiny;  lesson  and  warning  to 
those  who  trust  to  the  moment's  happiness,  since  all 


72  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

are  in  the  hands  of  the  gods  who  weave  life  as 
they  list. 

Mounet  Sully  was  masterly  in  the  role  of  (Edipus, 
possessing  as  well  as  genius  a  presence  strikingly  regal. 
Even  the  violence  of  his  delivery,  characteristic  of  his 
acting,  seemed  to  express  the  elemental  emotions  of 
the  Theban  monarch;  and  Harding  left  the  theatre 
with  the  awful  cries  he  uttered,  in  lifting  despairing 
hands  to  heaven,  still  ringing  in  his  ears. 

On  his  way  down  the  rue  de  Rivoli,  Harding  heard 
the  sounds  being  imitated  in  sport  by  several  gay 
pedestrians  ahead  of  him  ...  he  surmised  them  to  be 
students.  It  was  done  with  all  the  exuberance  of  care- 
less youth;  yet  as  it  echoed  through  the  midnight 
street,  he  had  the  feeling  that  it  carried  (Edipus' s 
lament  into  modern  life,  that  it  was  the  voice  of  tragedy 
the  same  to-day  as  in  those  legend-breeding  times 
preceding  that  era  of  Greek  art  which  seized  on  and 
moulded  the  theme  into  enduring  form. 

A  profound  melancholy  filled  him.  The  play  had 
sapped  the  life  out  of  his  new  resolves;  it  seemed  to 
emasculate  his  will,  blight  with  its  ironic  comment  on 
human  plannings.  What  mattered  what  one  did  or  did 
not  do?  One  was  in  "  the  hands  of  the  gods."  One 
could  not  alter  fate.  However  one  strove,  the  end  was 
the  same. 

Yet,  next  morning,  shaking  off  the  obsession  of  the 
play,  he  applied  himself  to  his  book  with  an  energy  that 
came  of  recognizing  the  need  to  finish  it  as  soon  as 
possible.  In  it  lay  his  only  hope  of  solving  material 


THE  QUEST  73 

difficulties.  He  had  several  hundred  dollars  still  laid  by, 
and  by  practising  economy  it  Would  last  him,  no  doubt, 
until  the  manuscript  was  completed. 

He  wrote  slowly.  Dispatch  he  had  never  acquired, 
in  spite  of  long  journalistic  schooling.  Even  the 
prodding  of  necessity  could  not  overcome  the  habit, 
which  arose  from  his  over  fastidiousness  about  phrase. 
Style  was  his  strongest  artistic  absorption.  In  the 
thankless  exercise  of  newspaper  craft  he  had  clung,  as 
though  therein  lay  its  dignity,  to  the  gloss  of  expres- 
sion, giving  to  each  sheet  of  ephemeral  "  copy,"  the 
stamp  of  a  critical  taste.  It  had  been  deemed  a  fault 
in  the  office,  where  ease  in  turning  out  matter  was 
valued;  and  Harding  had  consequently  acquired 
among  his  fellow  workers  the  reputation  of  being  a 
clever  but  unready  writer  not  to  be  depended  upon  in 
grand  emergencies  of  haste. 

Seldom  satisfied  with  what  he  did,  his  uncertainty 
in  writing  was  like  an  echo  of  his  uncertainty  of 
character's  sensitiveness  to  mood  and  surrounding. 
Recklessly  he  tore  up  chapters  to  write  them  in  different 
fashion  until  he  exhausted  himself,  reacted  against 
work,  indulged  in  idleness  while  he  waited  for  what 
seemed  a  more  favouring  inspiration.  Thus  his  story 
had  grown  tardily,  never  seemed  nearer  completion. 
The  end  loomed  like  a  mountain  peak,  seen  through 
trick  of  atmosphere,  that  appears  to  retreat  as  one 
advances. 

The  plot  itself  had  given  him  little  trouble.  It  was  a 
simple  human  story  of  American  village  life,  drawn 


74  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

from  the  recollections  of  youth,  and  in  which  his  mother 
moved  as  the  dominating  figure.  It  was  his  tribute  to 
her  heroic  self-sacrifices  and  high-mindedness,  the 
sense  of  which  had  escaped  him  in  boyhood,  but  which 
haunted  him  now,  mixed  with  regret  that  he  had  so 
little  appreciated  her.  None  of  his  own  pessimism  had 
come  into  the  pages.  ...  He  had  tried  to  see  life  through 
her  eyes,  not  his  own. 


75 


CHAPTER  V 

AT  Percy  Colston's  request,  Mrs.  Eversley  had  invited 
Harding  to  one  of  her  Wednesday  evening  dinners  for 
celebrities.  At  least,  Colston  had  told  Harding  it  was  at 
his  suggestion,  and  on  the  strength  of  it  he  had  first 
invited  himself  to  lunch  with  Harding,  and  had  then 
invited  Harding  to  call  for  him  in  a  cab  on  the  way  to 
Neuilly. 

Mrs.  Eversley,  her  arbiter  of  elegance  explained  as 
they  drove,  was  a  beauty  of  the  night-blooming  order 
.  .  .  she  never  properly  unfolded  except  under  gas  light, 
and  Harding,  as  he  shook  hands,  acknowledged  that  his 
hostess  looked  very  lovely  in  the  glow  shed  by  the  wax 
tapers  of  the  Murano  chandelier  beneath  which  she 
stood  to  receive  her  guests.  Her  gown  of  blended 
materials  showed  her  perfect  neck,  encircled  by  a  Rene 
Lalique  necklace  of  small  uncut  emeralds;  and  the 
dubious  blonde  of  her  hair  had  a  sprinkling  of  gold  dust 
so  it  shone  in  a  charming  cloud  about  her  delicate  face, 
with  its  red  lips  and  girlish  eyes,  a  little  vague  as  if  from 
belladonna. 

She  welcomed  him  in  a  pretty,  slightly  timid  way, 
like  a  bride  giving  her  first  party.  There  was  something 
quite  disarming  about  her,  he  had  to  confess,  as  of  one 
who  says :  "  I  really  am  harmless,  how  can  you  doubt  it  ?  " 


76  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

And  with  her  soft,  conciliatory  hand  in  his,  he  felt  it 
was  unkind  to  criticize. 

She  was  very  flattering  in  telling  him  how  good  it  was 
of  him  to  come  when,  according  to  Mr.  Colston,  he  was 
busy  on  a  book.  There  were  so  many  claims  on  one's 
time,  but  he  would  have  to  spare  her  a  little  of  his 
leisure  since,  as  Miss  Vanderhurst  said,  they  must  be 
friendly.  It  was  not  a  big  dinner  to-night  .  .  .  only 
fourteen.  That  is,  if  Elsie  Fitzgerald  didn't  fail.  She 
hoped  she  wouldn't,  for  it  would  make  thirteen  at  table, 
and  she  was  a  little  superstitious  about  unlucky 
numbers  .  .  .  was  he?  Indeed,  she  was  always  con- 
sulting Madame  de  Kansa,  the  great  Paris  sorciere — 
who,  he'd  be  interested  to  know,  perhaps,  was  one  of 
her  guests.  She  read  one's  palm  in  a  most  marvellous 
way. 

"Ah,  there  is  Miss  Fitzgerald  now,"  she  broke  off,  as 
a  mantled  figure  passed  through  the  hall,  "so  we  are 
saved." 

The  poet  remarked  it  was  always  the  least  important 
guest  who  arrived  last  at  dinner. 

Mrs.  Eversley  gave  him  a  chiding  touch  with  her  fan. 

"  Isn't  he  incorrigible,  Mr.  Harding  ?  "  she  appealed. 
"He  never  spares  anyone  with  his  epigrams.  Miss 
Fitzgerald  is  one  of  Marchesi's  most  promising  pupils, 
but  Percy  hasn't  forgiven  her  for  not  singing  in  his  play. 
Now,  you  must  know  whom  I've  chosen  for  you  to  take 
in  to  dinner — Mrs.  Emily  Longford,  the  English 
novelist.  You'll  find  her  interesting,  I'm  sure.  Have 
you  met  any  of  the  others  here,  I  wonder?  That  is 


THE  QUEST  77 

Madame  Stenoff,  talking  with  Monsieur  Chelard,  the 
composer:  she  is  reforming  our  funeral  customs,  and 
has  written  a  book  on  the  cinerary  urns  of  the  ancients. 
When  her  husband  died,  she  courageously  mourned  for 
him  in  yellow — after  the  Chinese  mode.  That  sallow- 
looking  young  man  is  an  Armenian  actor,  an  associate 
of  Lugny-Poe,  and  a  great  Shakespeare  enthusiast.  And 
that  is  the  poetess,  Mile.  Dolores  Lagrange — '  Mystic 
Dolores,'  as  Mr.  Colston  calls  her — whose  volume, 
Parfum  de  Lotus  bleu,  the  critics  say,  has  such  a 
wonderful  sob  in  it.  The  two  men  by  the  fireplace  are 
Herr  Wolff,  the  Munich  artist,  and  Professor  Piranesi, 
of  Milan,  who  is  lecturing  here  on  what  we'd  have  been 
had  we  evolved  from  elephants  instead  of  apes." 

She  seemed  to  take  quite  a  girlish  delight  in  all  the 
lions  and  lionesses  she  had  caged,  as  taking  Harding' s 
arm  she  led  him  forward  to  where  they  shook  their 
manes. 

The  dining-room,  opening  from  the  salon,  was  furnished 
in  Henri  II  style,  with  oak  panelling  and  tapestries. 
Harding's  eye  was  attracted  by  the  beautiful  buf- 
fet, its  doors  carved  with  classic  scenes.  On  this 
rested  some  rare  old  pewter  and  an  antique  dianandrie, 
representing  a  peacock,  in  yellow-hued  bronze.  Over 
the  entabulatured  chimney  piece,  flanked  by  chairs  of 
odd  caquetoire  type,  hung  a  portrait,  school  of  Frangois 
Clouet,  of  a  fleshy  mignon,  of  the  court  of  Henri  II, 
wearing  earrings  and  blue  plumed  bonnet,  a  white 
greyhound  by  his  side,  and  in  his  hand  an  egg  of  Nurn- 
berg  he  consulted,  as  if  impatient  for  a  rendezvous. 


78  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

The  table  shone  with  discreet  light,  the  silk  candle 
shades  the  handiwork  of  a  Japanese  artist  in  moment- 
ary vogue  in  Paris.  The  centre  ornament  was  a  Capa 
de  Manote  triumph,  filled  with  white  poppies,  repeating 
their  pale  note  in  opalescent  lachrymatories,  Pompeiian 
style,  placed  at  each  cover. 

Mrs.  Emily  Longford  was  a  discontented -looking 
woman,  whose  books  Harding  thought  boring.  Nature 
had  played  a  little  joke  on  a  lady  of  unimpeachable 
morals,  by  bestowing  a  physiognomy  resembling  that 
of  Catherine  of  Russia.  The  steel  beads  dangling  on 
her  corsage  were  kept  in  constant  agitation  by  the 
matronly  breathing  of  a  bosom,  the  bellows'  capacity 
of  which  was  calculated  to  keep  the  divine  fire  going  in 
the  least  gifted. 

It  was  in  the  midst  of  a  course  that  Harding,  who 
chatted  with  Miss  Fitzgerald  on  his  right,  was  recalled 
to  the  duties  he  owed  to  the  novelist,  by  having  her 
observe  querulously: 

"  What  an  extraordinary  glow  the  candles  shed. 
It's  almost  cadaverous.  Mrs.  Eversley  seems  the  only 
one  proof  against  it.  But  that  wonderful  complexion 
of  hers  is,  I  imagine,  equal  to  anything.  I'm  not  sur- 
prised her  daughter  has  taken  up  enamelling  .  .  .  she 
probably  inherits  the  taste  from  her  mother.  I  ques- 
tion, though,  if  she'll  ever  achieve  such  a  masterpiece 
as  Mrs.  Eversley." 

Harding  glanced  about  him.  The  effect  of  the 
candles  was  rather  greenery-yallery,  as  he  expressed  it 
to  himself,  now  his  attention  was  called  to  it — suggest- 
ing that  the  guests  were  in  an  incipient  stage  of  chlorosis. 


THE  QUEST  79 

Mrs.  Eversley  alone,  as  Mrs.  Longford  bitterly  noted, 
remained  unaffected.  Her  beauty  glowed  triumphant 
in  rosy  light.  Then  some  confidences  of  Percy  Colston 
on  their  way  to  the  house  came  back  to  him.  .  .  .  How 
he  had  suggested  to  Mrs.  Eversley  the  device  of  exalting 
her  looks  at  the  expense  of  her  guests  by  employing 
such  candle  shades  at  her  dinner  table.  He  wondered 
at  this  inhospitable  vanity,  which  did  not  even  spare 
her  own  daughter.  Certainly,  as  the  poet  affirmed,  she 
had  not  the  temperament  of  the  mother.  The  reflection 
caused  him  some  reaction  from  the  sentiment  inspired 
by  his  talk  with  her. 

"  She  is  a  masterpiece,  isn't  she  ?  "  he  responded 
lightly.  "  But  perhaps  she  '  makes  up  '  for  lost  time, 
as  Gilbert  says  in  the  Bab  Ballads.  You  know  she 
isn't  as  young  as  she  looks." 

The  novelist,  who  looked  older  than  she  was,  was 
still  resentful  of  her  hostess.  "  I  should  say  all  her 
time  was  lost  time,"  she  replied.  "  I  wonder  a  woman 
of  her  light  tastes  cares  to  collect  intellectual  people 
about  her.  These  talked-of  '  Wednesday  dinners '  of 
hers  are  to  me  one  of  the  many  incongruities  of  Parisian 
life." 

"  At  least  the  lightness  is  reflected  in  the  pastry,"  he 
returned  as  he  broke  the  vol-au-vent  on  his  plate. 
"  Why  ask  too  much  of  dinner  givers  ?  A  good  menu 
is  the  main  thing  in  a  hostess.  One  prefers  it  to  a 
feast  of  reason  and  the  blunders  of  a  bad  cook.  At  all 
events,  that  appears  to  be  the  opinion  of  Monsieur 
Chelard." 

The  composer,  who  had  a  bon-vivant's  visage,  was 


8o  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

quoting,  to  Mrs.  Eversley,  Rossini,  prince  of  gourmands, 
in  support  of  the  theory  that  the  stomach  was  the 
musical  conductor  of  the  passions. 

"  An  empty  stomach,"  he  was  saying,  "  is  like  a 
bassoon,  which  growls  with  discontent,  or  a  piccolo 
flute,  expressing  its  desires  in  shrill  tones.  A  full 
stomach,  on  the  other  hand,  is  the  triangle  of  pleasure, 
the  drum  of  joy.  To  eat,  love,  sing,  digest  .  .  .  these, 
madame,  as  the  composer  maintains,  are  the  four  acts 
of  the  comic  opera,  called  Life,  and  who  lets  his  day 
pass  without  enjoying  them,  lacks  wisdom.  Yes,  chere 
madame,  the  table  was  meant  to  be  an  art.  As  Savarin 
puts  it,  '  Tell  me  what  you  eat  and  I  will  tell  you  what 
you  are.'  ' 

"  Yes,  but  Monsieur  Chelard,"  said  his  hostess  with 
pretty  earnestness,  "  how  difficult  it  is  to  tell  what  one 
eats,  nowadays.  I  remember,  last  week,  at  Baroness 
von  Schneider's  dinner,  how  each  course  was  like  a 
charade.  One  had  to  guess  what  it  was.and  then  it 
generally  wasn't.  You  know  how  fin-de-siecle  she  is, 
how  complicated.  I've  heard  her  chef  reads  Ibsen, 
which  may  account  for  his  morbid  taste  in  menus — 
they're  quite  like  problem  plays.  For  my  part,  I  like 
simple  food.  ..." 

"  I  agree  with  you,  Madame  Eversley,"  said  the 
lady  who  mourned  in  yellow  as  a  protest  against  crape. 
"  It's  what  I'm  always  urging — simplicity  in  diet. 
When  I  write  I  restrict  myself  to  a  daily  portion  of 
Persian  rice,  prepared  according  to  a  recipe  learned 
from  the  Parsees.  I  find  rice  produces  mental  exalta- 


THE  QUEST  81 

tion.  Monsieur  Chelard  will  pardon  me — I  am  not  a 
musician." 

"  Few  authors  are  music  lovers,"  observed  the 
author  of  the  Elephant-Man  versus  the  Homo  Caudatus. 
"  You  remember  how  Gautier  and  other  French 
litterateurs  felt  the  same.  I  confess,  frankly,  I  detest 
modern  music.  It's  only  a  form  of  neuroticism,  use- 
lessly upsetting  the  nerves  of  hysterical  persons.  I 
congratulate  Monsieur  Chelard  that  he  is  a  follower  of 
Rossini  and  not  one  of  Wagner's  neurasthenic  apes." 

Music  became  the  topic  of  the  table.  Percy  Colston 
criticized  the  Paris  Op6ra  directors  for  presenting 
nothing  but  Gounod  and  Verdi.  He  found  the  cafe- 
chantant  preferable.  "  It's  '  Variety/  "  he  remarked, 
"that  is  the  spice  of  Paris  life.  Go  to  the  Ambas- 
sadeurs,  and  hear  Yvette  Guilbert  sing.  Hers  is  the 
true  art  of  the  age,  that  hides  tragedy  in  laughter, 
is  the  sadder  for  seeming  gay.  How  symbolic  her 
black-gloved  arms.  .  .  .  One  feels  that  they  are  dyed  in 
the  Eternal  Night  where  she  leans  so  pityingly,  to  em- 
brace the  lost  soul  of  things."  He  sipped  his  chablis 
pensively.  "  Monsieur  Chelard  is  right.  To  live,  we 
must  evade,  forget .  .  .  and  wine  is  one  of  the  nepenthes. 
It  is  there  we  find  the  eternal  youth  of  Omar.  One 
swallow  makes  a  springtime  of  the  heart." 

The  "  Mystic  Dolores  "  listened  raptly.  She  sug- 
gested a  Beardsley  drawing,  with  her  thin  figure  and 
strangely-arranged  mustard-hued  hair.  Upon  her 
filleted  pale  brow  hung  an  oddly  designed  pendant. 
There  was  something  about  it  which  evoked  em- 

G 


82  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

barrassment,  although  it  would  have  been  hard  to 
say  why. 

She  confessed  that  music  was  her  great  inspirator  of 
life.  Half  her  poems  came  of  hearing  it.  There  were 
certain  'cello  passages  of  Schumann  that  painted  land- 
scapes of  dream  more  wonderful  than  those  of  Corot  or 
Boclin.  She  sighed:  "  Ah,  without  it ..." 

She  did  not  finish,  as  though  there  were  mysteries  of 
soul-life  too  sacred  for  utterance.  Some  at  the  table 
seemed  relieved  at  the  reticence. 

Mrs.  Longford  had  heard  her  with  disapproval. 
"  Mademoiselle  Lagrange,  I  understand,"  she  said  to 
Harding,  "  believes  herself  an  incarnation  of  Cleopatra, 
and  is  meditating  a  trip  to  Egypt  to  '  lift  the  veil  of 
Isis.'  It  seems  she  sleeps  in  a  mummy  case  and  marks 
her  linen  with  scarabees — I  wonder  what  her  laundry- 
woman  thinks.  Her  Blue  Lotus,  you  know,  was  con- 
sidered so  improper  it  had  to  be  published  in  Belgium. 
She  appears  to  enjoy  her  neighbour,  Herr  Wolff,  the 
artist  who  paints  snails  that  look  like  human  beings.  I 
saw  one  of  his  pictures  at  last  year's  Salon."  She 
shuddered  expressively. 

"  '  The  Rape  of  the  Snail- Women,'  wasn't  it?  "  he 
replied.  "  One  can't  accuse  his  snails  of  being  slow." 
He  was  tempted  to  flippancy  by  her  solemnity. 

Mrs.  Longford  stared  with  Anglo-Saxon  misgiving. 

"  I  presume  that  is  what  Americans  call  a  pun,"  she 
said  with  crushing  intent,  "I'm  told  it  is  the  highest 
form  of  your  national  humour." 

"  Yes,  every  race  has  its  own  kind,  you  know,"  he 


THE  QUEST  83 

agreed,  unabashed.  "  With  the  French  it's  the 
naughty  double  entente  that  grace  saves  from  offending. 
The  German's  jest  is  rather  strong — like  his  delicatessen. 
The  English  idea  of  wit — or  was  it  your  Scotchman's — 
is,  according  to  Dr.  Johnson,  laughing  uproariously  at 
stated  intervals.  That's  certainly  less  of  a  strain." 

"  I  don't  sympathise  with  laughter,"  she  replied,  as 
though  the  speech  was  beneath  her.  "  Human  nature 
never  seems  so  degraded  to  me  as  when  it  betrays 
itself  in  the  distorted  physiognomy  of  coarse  mirth. 
That,  I  think,  is  why  mediaeval  artists  gave  leering 
faces  to  the  obscene  grotesques  on  their  cathedrals. 
Life  is  no  laughing  matter,  Mr.  Harding.  The  idea  that 
the  world  was  invented  only  to  be  the  subject  of  jest  is 
what  has  destroyed  the  French.  Their  blague,  as  they 
call  it,  has  poisoned  their  faith  and  slain  their  self- 
respect.  Their  civilization  is  a  tragedy,  for  it  is  without 
God  or  sense  of  decency." 

The  table  talk  grew  more  animated.  The  egotism  of 
personal  predilections  manifested  itself  generally. 
Madame  Stenoff  urged  the  aesthetic  advantages  of 
adopting,  for  crematory  uses,  the  painted  funeral  urns 
of  the  Greeks.  The  Armenian  actor  drew  a  comparison 
between  Hamlet  and  Ibsen's  Ghosts.  Madame  de 
Kansa  was  asking  d  propos  of  the  coming  coronation  of 
the  King  of  Spain,  what  her  science  forewarned  would 
be  the  young  Alphonso's  fate. 

"  I  haven't  read  his  hand,"  the  seeress  replied,  with 
the  air  of  one  habituated  to  royal  clients.  "  But  I  am 
familiar  with  his  traits,  that  show  the  degenerate 

G2 


84  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

stigma  characteristic  of  the  ill-starred  Hapsbourgs. 
His  exaggerated  maxillary  and  consequent  out-thrust 
lower  lip  are  the  abnormal  facial  signs  of  his  house — 
and  they  only  too  plainly  tell  his  end.  All  of  his  blood 
have  had  the  same  features,  from  the  days  of  Charles 
the  Fifth.  Predispositions  have  been  fortified  by 
numberless  consanguineous  marriages.  The  Haps- 
bourg  jaw  is,  indeed,  so  dominating  that  whether  male 
or  female  members  espouse  one  of  alien  extraction,  the 
sign  invariably  imposes  itself  on  descendants  . .  .  though 
naturally,  the  female  has  the  more  strongly  transmitted 
it — as  is  the  case  with  all  heredities." 

A  fly  had  settled  on  Colston's  chin,  and  he  brushed  it 
off  rather  ostentatiously,  as  if  to  call  attention  to  the 
classic  modelling  of  that  feature.  "  Yes,"  he  interpo- 
lated, "  It's  like  the  Austrian  lip  of  poor  Marie  Antoin- 
ette; or  the  nose  of  the  Medicis.  How  Cosimo  the 
Second's  descendants  must  have  blessed  him  for 
blowing  that  famous  organ  of  his  before  it  hardened." 

"  The  degeneracy  of  the  Hapsbourgs  is  undeniable," 
said  the  Milanese  lecturer,  who  had  no  patience  with 
flippancy.  "  It  only  goes  to  prove  how  unfit  the 
crowned  heads  of  Europe  are  to  rule  the  peoples  con- 
fided to  their  keeping.  I  have  always  insisted  in  my 
books  on  the  enormity  of  these  consanguineous  unions 
among  those  who  have  their  feeble  hands  on  the  rudder 
of  civilization.  Marriages  that  carry  on  the  seed  of 
madness,  vice,  and  other  ills,  have  no  excuse  even  in  the 
face  of  the  supposed  necessity  of  nations  strengthening 
their  thrones  by  royal  alliances.  How  much  less  have 


THE  QUEST  85 

private  individuals  right  to  pass  on  hampering  inherit- 
ance to  innocent,  unborn  victims.  But  science  has 
aroused  the  world  to  a  sense  of  that  evil,  and  coming 
generations  will  act  in  accordance  with  its  warnings. 

"  Yes,"  he  continued,  his  eyes  shining  like  glow 
worms  through  the  glasses  on  his  brown,  dry  face, 
"  we  have  begun  to  accept  the  fact  that  there  is  no 
such  thing  as  isolate  personality.  Every  individual 
is  consequent  on  the  mental  and  physical  self  behind 
him — a  mere  link  in  the  endless  chain  of  evolution. 
The  law  of  human  responsibility  is  being  strengthened. 
The  fate  of  civilization  rests  on  the  cardinal  obligation 
of  maternity.  To  transmit  that  which  handicaps  racial 
development,  is  the  crime  of  crimes.  It  is  conscience 
regarding  the  physical  side  of  life  that  will  constitute 
the  religion  of  the  future." 

The  speaker  paused  to  gaze  about  him,  to  gather, 
as  it  were,  a  plebiscite  of  approval  from  those  on  whom 
his  carrying  voice  fastened  the  yoke  of  attention. 
Harding  chanced  to  look  at  Miss  Eversley.  Her  strange 
eyes,  the  colour  of  which  so  attracted  him,  were  fixed 
on  the  drooping  poppies  of  the  centrepiece.  From  the 
expression  of  her  lips,  pressed  together,  he  got  the  idea 
that  she  was  crushing  emotion.  He  wondered  if  Pro- 
fessor Piranesi's  views  had  in  some  way  displeased  her. 
He  could  fancy  her  having  rather  decided  ones  of  her 
own  on  such  subjects.  Her  self-guarding  quiet 
interested  him — he  would  like  to  have  known  what 
underlay  it.  Her  air,  as  she  thus  sat  between  the 
Armenian  and  Herr  Wolff,  gave  the  impression  of  one 


86  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

a  stranger  in  her  home.  Had  she  passed  through  some 
trying  experience  that  had  frozen  the  spontaneous, 
warmer  woman  in  her  ?  She  did  not  look  like  one  cold 
by  nature,  but  rather  through  accident.  He  saw  that 
Percy  Colston  was  watching  her  with  a  faint  smile  of 
malice,  as  if  he  savoured  some  effect  of  situation.  Mrs. 
Eversley,  too,  appeared  agitated  .  .  .  she  was  leaning 
back,  nervously  playing  with  her  gloves.  Harding  was 
intrigued  over  the  vague  suggestion  of  drama  expressed 
by  the  attitude  of  the  three  in  the  momentary  pause. 

It  was  all  taken  in  while  the  speaker  cleared  his 
throat  in  a  way  he  had  probably  acquired  from  public 
lecturing;  and  he  started  to  continue,  when  Mrs. 
Eversley  checked  him  by  abruptly  rising,  leaving  her 
guests  to  follow  her  into  the  salon  or  betake  themselves 
to  the  smoking-room  for  coffee. 

On  entering  the  salon,  after  his  cigarette,  Harding 
made  his  way  to  Miss  Eversley.  She  sat  in  a  bergere, 
near  the  Erard  piano,  over  the  queue  of  which  was 
thrown  a  piece  of  old  gold  brocade  that  made  an 
effective  background  for  her  dark  head.  Monsieur 
Chelard  was  at  the  keys,  improvising.  Conversation  was 
taking  generally  a  light  tone,  as  reaction  from  the 
serious  note  struck  at  the  dinner's  close.  Miss  Eversley 
alone  preserved  her  grave,  preoccupied  air  of  detach- 
ment from  digestive  trivialities  being  exchanged 
around  her.  Harding  was  less  struck  by  her  appearance 
in  the  simple  evening  dress  she  had  on.  It  was  of  grey 
crepe  de  Chine,  and  it  did  not  particularly  become 
her;  and  he  got  the  impression  she  dressed  effacingly 


THE  QUEST  87 

through    a    wish    to    avoid    comparison     with    her 
mother. 

"  It's  been  an  evening  of  suggestive  discussion, 
hasn't  it?  "  he  remarked,  as  he  seated  himself  beside 
her.  "  One  has  to  come  to  France  for  the  art  of  con- 
versation. .  .  .  We  haven't  evolved  it  yet  in  America. 
We're  too  absorbed  in  stocks  and  bonds  and  the  servant 
problem  there  to  give  Shakespeare  and  the  musical 
glasses  much  show." 

He  had  thought  the  table  talk  about  as  mad  as 
Alice's  tea  party,  and  his  own  strain  to  contribute  a 
share  had  left  a  bad  taste  on  his  mental  tongue.  He 
seldom  was  his  real  self  in  society,  being  convinced 
that  he  had  no  genuine  affiliation  with  it,  and  that  his 
veritable  feelings  and  thoughts  had  nothing  to  recom- 
mend them  to  the  well-fed,  comfortable  class.  To  get 
the  best  out  of  people,  one  must  give  the  best,  as  well 
he  knew,  but  he  persisted  in  his  artificiality  with  the 
world.  His  effort  at  careless,  epigrammatic  brightness, 
he  often  told  himself,  was  like  fox-fire. 

He  did  not  know  why  he  adopted  this  tone  towards 
Miss  Eversley.  He  felt  it  did  not  please  her,  that  she 
suspected  him  of  sarcasm,  which  was  scarcely  courteous 
to  the  daughter  of  his  hostess.  Yet  there  was  some- 
thing in  her  intelligent  composure  that  tempted.  .  .  . 
He  wanted  to  arouse  her,  find  the  real  woman  under 
that  calm.  It  was  one  of  his  inconsistencies  that  while 
sensitive  to  people's  dislike,  he  often  did  his  best 
to  challenge  it.  There  was  a  certain  fascination  in 
appearing  to  be  what  prejudice  conceived. 


88  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

She  did  not  seem  to  think  his  remark  called  for  any 
reply.  Miss  Eversley  had  the  rare  accomplishment 
of  being  silent  when  she  had  nothing  to  say,  without 
appearing  gauche  or  unready.  So  few  people  were  able 
to  resist  the  coercion  of  filling  in  a  pause — cause  of  so 
much  idle  talk  in  society.  Her  grey-green  eyes  merely 
regarded  him  a  moment  in  a  casual,  analysing  way, 
as  she  took  up,  from  the  tabour  at  her  elbow,  a  carved 
knife  and  played  with  it.  It  was  instinctive  with  her, 
perhaps,  to  employ  her  hands,  which  were  fine, 
dexterous  and  white. 

"  Madame  de  Kansa  is  a  striking  looking  woman," 
he  went  on,  "  don't  you  think  ?  "  He  had  glanced 
across  the  room  at  those  gathered  about  the  seeress. 
"  I  don't  believe  she  knows  how  to  smile.  .  .  .  She 
reminds  one  of  what  was  said  to  be  the  effect  of  passing 
a  night  in  the  cave  of  Triphonius.  It  must  be  a  bit 
uncomfortable  to  have  the  blood  of  Norma  in  your 
veins — unless  you  make  a  point  of  prophesying 
'  smooth  things,'  which,  I  suppose,  is  what  most 
people  pay  to  hear.  You  believe  in  palmistry?  " 

"  I  think  the  hand  indicates  character  in  a  general 
way,"  she  answered.  "  I  doubt,  though,  if  palmists 
depend  as  much  on  lines  as  on  their  cleverness  at 
deduction  when  fortune-telling.  If  one  understands 
oneself,  one  ought  to  be  able  to  forecast  the  future 
without  need  of  a  Madame  de  Kansa." 

"  But  who  does  understand  oneself  ?  I  wish  I  did — 
or  why  one  is  at  all.  It's  part  of  the  general  mystery 
of  things." 


THE  QUEST  89 

"  That's  scarcely  a  flattering  view  to  take  of  one- 
self," she  said,  as  though  conceding  something  to  a 
pose.  "  Most  people  find  reason  enough  for  living." 

"  Yes,  I  know  we  like  to  think  there's  a  reason.  We 
try  to  find  it  in  religion  or,  in  default  of  that,  in  science. 
The  choice  is  a  question  which  we  prefer — the  heart 
or  the  head.  As  for  me,  I  find  one  as  little  satisfying 
as  the  other.  I  had  an  attack  of  atheism  at  six,  I 
remember,  and  used  to  bury  my  head  under  the  bed- 
clothes at  night  trembling  at  my  precocious  audacity. 
As  to  science,  I've  always  hated  it  and  its  explanations 
— that  never  really  explain.  But  you  are  interested  in 
it,  aren't  you?  At  least,  I  got  that  impression  from 
your  air  at  table — I  rather  fancied  you'd  have  liked 
to  combat  some  of  Professor  Piranesi's  views." 

He  regretted  the  speech,  for  she  looked  at  him  a 
moment  as  though  he  had  committed  an  impertinence. 
The  regard  was  proud;  it  seemed  to  him  it  safeguarded 
some  wound  he  had  dealt  her  unaware.  To  spare  her 
any  answer,  he  went  on  hastily : 

"  Interest  in  that  kind  of  thing  is,  of  course,  a 
question  of  temperament.  As  I  say,  science  doesn't 
appeal  to  mine.  It  seems  to  me  it  strips  life  of  beauty 
and  charm,  by  reducing  it  to  a  mere  matter  of  physical 
laws.  If,  after  all,  it  is  only  that,  I'd  rather  delude 
myself,  fancy  it  more.  Facts  are  disagreeable  things 
to  face,  as  a  rule." 

"  I  prefer  to  face  them,  however,"  she  returned  as 
though  she  were  being  taxed  with  cowardice.  Harding 
had  the  feeling  she  was  assuming  in  his  words  some 


90  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

motive  beyond  what  appeared.  From  curiosity  to  know 
her  opinions  about  things,  he  had  drifted  into  personal 
analysis. 

He  knew  he  was  impressing  her  unfavourably,  but 
tormenting  taste  for  challenging  hostile  minds  caused 
him  to  continue. 

"  Even  at  the  price  one  generally  pays  for  truth?  " 
he  demanded.  "  It's  not  how  artists  usually  feel,  you 
know — and  Miss  Vanderhurst  tells  me  you  are  one. 
For  instance,  there's  the  new  view  science  takes  of 
art — Lombroso's,  I  mean — that  it's  only  the  product 
of  degeneracy  and  half-madness.  It's  rather  depressing 
to  face  that,  don't  you  think,  if  it's  true  ? — and  I  can't 
help  feeling  that  there  is  something  in  it.  Art  is  try- 
ing to  create  the  illusion  that  life  is  joy  and  light — and 
science  would  stamp  artists  out  by  proving  to  them 
they're  only  drones  in  the  hive.  Yet  I  don't  see  that  it 
offers  anything  that  compensates  for  what  it  robs  the 
world  of." 

She  did  not  listen  to  him  very  graciously,  but  he  felt 
he  had  engaged  her  interest,  antagonistic  as  that 
appeared.  He  smiled  a  little  to  himself  in  reflecting 
that,  after  all,  few  women  are  wholly  unamenable  to 
the  compliment  paid  them  in  assuming  they  possess  the 
intelligence  to  discuss  abstract  things. 

"  That  ignores  the  fact  science  shows  there  is  an 
evolutionary  purpose  in  nature,"  she  observed.  "  It 
imposes  responsibility  on  the  individual  as  part  of  a 
great  design." 

"  But  I  don't  see  the  design,"  he  protested.    "  And 


THE  QUEST  91 

to  be  a  mere  '  link  in  a  chain/  as  Professor  Piranesi 
puts  it,  offends  one's  vanity  of  independence.  Science 
is  so  snubbing — in  the  way  it  regards  the  individual. 
It  forbids  us  to  think  of  our  own  ego.  And,  after  all, 
one  cares  more  about  oneself  than  the  race  at  large. 
One  mostly  wants  life  to  feed  one  to  the  full — I  know  I 
do,"  he  ended  audaciously. 

In  speaking,  he  had  fixed  his  eyes  on  her  hands, 
that  still  played  with  the  paper  knife.  They  were 
certainly  unusual  hands — almost  as  white  as  the  ivory 
ornament  she  held,  with  a  distinct  blue  vein  that, 
wandering  from  the  wrist,  was  lost  among  the  shapely 
knuckles.  The  tapering  finger  tips  seemed  eloquent  of 
the  delicate  special  craft  which  had  occupied  them  so 
well.  They  were  beautiful  hands,  and  they  looked 
practical  in  their  fine  way.  Harding  remembered 
afterwards  how  they  had  attracted  him  from  the  first. 

"  Ah,  then,  after  all,  you  do  confess  to  one  reason  for 
living?"  she  returned.  He  could  hardly  blame  her, 
since  both  his  words  and  manner  had  invited  it. 

"  But  life's  bad  enough  as  it  is,  without  devising 
'  duties,'  to  make  it  duller,"  he  said  flippantly. 

She  regarded  him  with  her  curious  eyes,  as  though 
hesitating  to  argue  with  such  a  trifler. 

"  You  are  quite  hopeless,  it  would  seem,"  she  said 
after  a  moment.  "  Wouldn't  it  be  fairer  to  find  less 
fault  with  the  world?  I  remember  you  complained, 
the  first  time  I  met  you,  of  a  lack  of  primroses  along 
your  path.  Is  that  your  ideal  of  happiness — to  employ 
your  time  picking  them  ?  " 


There  was  a  slight  in  her  voice,  and  he  felt  she  viewed 
him  as  a  self-absorbed,  superficial  lover  of  ease,  to 
whom  it  was  hardly  worth  while  to  talk  seriously. 

It  annoyed  him,  although  he  could  scarcely  censure 
her  for  accepting  the  role  he  assumed.  He  thought  to 
himself  she  might  modify  her  opinion  if  she  knew 
what  a  slavish  grind  his  life  had  been.  He  let  his  eyes 
fall  on  the  evidences  of  luxury  round  him.  It  wasn't 
difficult  for  her  to  take  a  superior  tone.  No  doubt,  she 
thought  that  her  studio  and  her  pretty  enamels,  her 
fashionable  charities,  justified  her  attitude  of  reproving 
the  idler  in  him. 

"  Perhaps  you'd  attach  more  valueto  promises  if  you'd 
not  been  brought  up  on  them,"  he  returned  with  some 
bluntness.  "  I  wonder  how  much  you  really  know 
about  life — the  struggles  of  living,  I  mean.  There's 
more  reason  for  hopelessness  than  you're  probably 
aware.  Existence  with  a  good  many  people  is  a  losing 
game.  Our  hands  are  dealt  out  to  us  by  others,  one  may 
say:  I  mean  we're  more  or  less  bundles  of  hereditary 
conditions.  We  all  haven't  the  Hapsbourg  jaw  as  the 
outward  sign  of  our  handicap — it  lies  in  hidden  marks 
of  failure.  So  many  detrimental  things  are  passed  down 
to  us,  like  ill-health,  unbalanced  mind,  practical 
incapacity,  that  it's  almost  absurd  to  talk  of  being  a 
free  agent.  One  isn't  free — one  is  in  bondage  to  our 
forefathers.  What  we  are,  seems  to  me  depressingly  the 
work  of  chance.  I  don't  suppose  you  deny  that  here- 
dity lays  its  morte-main  on  people,  that  our  character 
mostly  depends  on  the  kind  of  birthright  we  inherit." 


THE  QUEST  93 

He  spoke  sincerely  enough  now,  with  growing 
resentment  against  her  as  one  who  symbolised  the 
advantages  of  fortune.  There  was  a  certain  satisfaction 
in  letting  her  have  truth  from  the  shoulder. 

His  words,  or  perhaps  it  was  the  tone  in  which  they 
were  uttered,  seemingly  stirred  some  emotion  in  her. 
She  ceased  to  toy  with  the  paper  cutter  in  her 
hands. 

"  We  can't  ignore  heredity,  I  admit,"  she  answered, 
as  though  at  some  cost  to  herself.  "  Yet  is  it  fair  to 
lay  all  the  blame  of  our  failings  on  our  ancestors  ?  We 
have,  at  least,  something  that  is  our  own — our  will 
power.  We  can  use  it,  if  we  choose,  to  remake  the 
character  for  ourselves.  That  is,  I  think,  a  refuge  from 
whatever  is — unfortunate  in  our  blood." 

"  You  honestly  think  we  can  remake  ourselves?  " 
he  said  cynically. 

"  I  shouldn't  have  much  respect  for  myself  if  I 
thought  I  couldn't,"  she  said,  with  eyes  that  deepened 
a  little.  He  saw  that  her  mouth  had  the  expression 
which  he  had  noticed  at  table. 

The  guests  were  beginning  to  go,  and  he  rose.  "  We've 
had  a  rather  serious  talk,  haven't  we  ?  "  he  said,  as  he 
held  out  his  hand.  "  You've  made  science  more  inter- 
esting than  Professor  Piranesi." 

He  had  fallen  back  into  the  light,  half  jesting  tone 
with  which  he  had  begun  the  conversation. 

The  effect  of  this  attempt  at  polite  compli- 
ment seemed  to  revive  her  stiffness. 

She  looked  at  him,  without  responding,  as  if  she 


94  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

regretted  the  earnestness  of  her  last  words.  And  again 
he  admired  her  art  of  being  silent  when  she  chose. 

"  But  I  mean  it,"  he  protested  more  warmly. 

Then  as  she  merely  smiled  intolerantly,  he  added  in 
rather  tardy  repentance  for  his  flippancies  of  the 
evening. 

"  I'm  afraid  you  think  me  insincere,  Miss  Eversley  ?  " 

After  all,  he  rather  regretted  to  part  from  her, 
leaving  her  so  badly  impressed. 

"  Wouldn't  that  be  a  liberty — since  I  hardly  know 
you?" 

"  But  that  can  be  overcome,"  he  said,  unabashed. 
"  You  are  at  home  on  Fridays,  aren't  you  ?  " 

"  It  is  my  mother's  day — I  have  no  fixed  one." 

"  Then  I'll  trust  to  chance  for  seeing  you,"  he 
responded,  taking  it  as  a  rebuff.  And  with  a  bow  he 
turned  away. 

On  his  way  home  he  wondered  why  he  had  laid 
himself  open  to  the  snubbing  he  might  have  expected. 
Did  he  really  wish  to  see  her  again?  If  so,  it  was 
certainly  not  because  they  were  or  ever  could  be 
congenial.  Yet  something  about  her  piqued  his 
interest,  stirred  his  ambition  to  make  her  like  him,  in 
spite  of  antipathy.  He  told  himself,  with  an  annoyed 
laugh,  that  he  would  cause  her  to  capitulate. 


95 


CHAPTER  VI 

BUT  he  forgot  her  and  his  pique  by  next  morning,  when 
he  threw  himself  again  into  his  work,  seeing  nobody 
and,  indeed,  thinking  of  nothing  but  his  book  and  the 
necessity  of  getting  it  done  with  dispatch.  Years  of 
desk  toil  had  bred  the  working  habit  in  him,  and  he 
laboured  on  careless  of  consequences — the  overstrain 
of  nerves  and  depression  which  usually  followed  these 
mental  debauches  of  his.  While  the  spell  of  inspiration 
was  on  him,  he  begrudged  time  for  needed  exercise  or 
seeing  friends.  Naturally  fond  of  solitude,  life  had 
fostered  the  taste  in  him,  and  it  was  his  disposition  to 
seek  companionship  not  so  much  when  he  was  happy 
as  when  he  craved  cheer  or  sympathy  in  his  moody 
discouragements.  It  is,  after  all,  the  rare  individual 
who  gives  the  world  his  best ;  and  Harding  was  apt  to 
give  it  his  worst. 

He  had  made  considerable  progress  on  his  story,  and, 
indeed,  was  rather  pleased  with  what  he  had  done 
when,  one  day,  he  was  awakened  from  literary  absorp- 
tion by  receiving  a  note  from  Buttercup  Baxter,  telling 
him  that  she  and  her  aunt  were  leaving  Paris  in  a  few 
days,  and  asking  him  to  come  to  dinner  "  to  say 
good-bye." 

The  news  of  the  Baxters'  departure  had  a  somewhat 
sobering  effect.  He  had  not  conceived  of  their  leaving 


96  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

Paris  for  some  time,  and  he  wondered  if  they  intended 
to  return.  Buttercup  had  merely  mentioned  that  they 
were  going  on  a  motor  trip  through  Touraine,  without 
saying  what  were  their  plans  after  that.  Even  if  it 
were  their  present  purpose  to  come  back,  he  was 
familiar  enough  with  Buttercup's  gay  capriciousness 
not  to  place  any  dependence  on  that.  It  would  hardly 
be  until  the  following  autumn,  if  then.  He  knew  that 
Miss  Zenobia  was  tired  of  Paris.  She  had  so  glutted 
herself  with  rue  de  la  Paix  shopping,  that  her  mental 
indigestion  would  require  a  long  dieting  before  she 
recovered  her  appetite  for  jewellery  shops  and  dress- 
makers. 

His  reason  told  him  that  if  he  intended  proposing  to 
Buttercup,  it  was  now  or  never.  In  spite  of  shifting 
sentiment,  he  was  fond  of  her,  and  worldly  considera- 
tions certainly  prompted  him.  It  was  the  solution  of 
his  material  difficulties,  and  if  he  failed  to  take  advan- 
tage of  it,  had  he  the  right  to  complain  of  fate  ?  Yet 
pride,  love  of  independence,  the  hope  that,  after  all,  he 
might  achieve  his  salvation  without  such  a  humiliating 
resort,  filled  his  heart  with  rebellion.  He  was  glad  to 
reflect,  as  he  dressed  for  dinner,  that,  at  least,  he  could 
say  he  was  fond  of  her;  yet  he  was  conscious  that  had 
fortune  been  kinder  to  him,  he  would  never  have  con- 
templated asking  Buttercup  to  be  his  wife. 

On  his  arrival  at  the  Hotel  de  1'Athenee,  he  was 
shown  up  to  the  Baxters'  sitting-room,  where  he  found 
Miss  Zenobia  arrayed  with  the  magnificence  of  the 
Queen  of  Saba.  She  was  large  and  heroic  like  her 


THE  QUEST  97 

name.  Her  complacency  about  her  appearance  proba- 
bly originated  in  the  fact  that  as  a  young  woman,  and 
before  stoutness  set  in,  she  was  an  employee  in  the 
United  States  Mint,  where  her  face  had  been  used  as  a 
model  for  a  certain  goddess  of  liberty  ornamenting  a 
centenary  coin  issued  by  that  temple  of  Midas.  Time 
had  doubled  her  chin  and  the  fortune  of  her  merchant 
brother,  who  made  it  unnecessary  for  her  to  continue  to 
earn  her  living;  yet  it  was  only  natural  she  should 
remember  the  distinction  accorded  her  earlier  profile; 
and  it  perhaps  justified  her  role  of  a  goddess  of  liberty 
enlightening  the  world  as  to  the  superiority  of  her 
native  land — a  task  she  fulfilled  with  creditable 
thoroughness. 

The  present  trip  abroad — the  first  for  herself  as  well  as 
for  her  niece — was  intended,  in  a  way,  to  be  a  lesson  in 
European  disillusion  for  Buttercup,  to  correct  in  the 
latter  any  foolish  notions  that  novels  and  other  falsifying 
reports  might  have  put  in  her  head.  Miss  Zenobia  had, 
however,  strong  confidence  in  her  niece,  and  in  their 
travels  allowed  her  that  personal  freedom — precious 
privilege  of  American  girls — she  enjoyed  at  home. 
"  What's  the  use,"  the  sturdy  spinster  was  fond  of 
saying,  "  of  our  forefathers  having  fought  and  bled  for 
Freedom  and  Equality,  if  we  can't  be  as  free  as  we  like 
and  equal — to  anything." 

Her  chaperonage  of  Buttercup  had,  accordingly, 
been  perfunctory.  "  Buttercup,"  she  confided  to 
Harding,  "  doesn't  know  what  wickedness  is — and  she 
don't  want  to  know.  I  let  her  enjoy  herself,  for  no 

H 


98  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

harm  can  come  of  it.  One  hears  of  American  girls 
falling  in  love  with  counts  and  that  kind  of  foreign 
cattle — but  Buttercup  won't.  She's  got  too  much 
sense.  Besides,  Hiram  wouldn't  put  up  with  'em." 

She  received  her  guest  rather  stiffly,  as  a  rebuke  for 
his  recent  neglect;  but  his  plea  of  work  mollified  her. 
She  had  worked  herself.  True,  it  had  been  where  gold 
flowed;  but  she  knew  it  was  easier  to  coin  it  for  others 
than  to  coin  it  for  oneself. 

She  informed  him  that  Buttercup  had  motored  out 
to  the  Chateau  of  Madrid  for  tea,  and  had  not  yet  come 
in. 

"  So  you've  decided  to  leave  Paris?  "  he  said. 

"  Yes,  I  want  some  of  God's  good  air,"  Miss  Zenobia 
replied,  caressing  a  necklace  of  gems,  given  her  by 
friends,  that  she  called  her  "  love  string."  It  had  the 
effect  of  making  her  bosom  look  like  the  jeweller's  tray, 
but  she  loved  her  love  string,  which  kept  increasing  in 
length  and  variety  of  precious  stones.  Harding 
sometimes  speculated  whether  she  wore  it  to  bed 
with  her  sunbursts. 

"  Paris  is  getting  too  stuffy  for  me,"  she  continued. 
"  And  there's  Sans  Souci — (it  was  the  name  the  Baxters 
had  given  their  resplendent  motor)  "  that  we  don't 
get  enough  use  of — the  chauffeur  spends  most  of  his 
time  taking  the  chambermaids  out  in  the  Bois.  I 
suppose  Buttercup  told  you  we're  going  to  do  the 
Chateaux  " — Miss  Zenobia  pronounced  it  "  ch'toes  " — 
"  of  Touraine.  We  put  them  down  as  something  we 
ought  to  see — though  I  don't  believe  they  come  up  to 
our  millionaires'  homes  at  Brookline.  After  that,  we 


THE  QUEST  99 

don't  know  where  we'll  go.  Buttercup  expects  you  to 
come  along  with  us,  as  I  guess  she  wrote  you  ?  And,  by 
the  way,"  she  added  significantly,  "  she's  been  seeing  a 
good  deal  of  a  friend  of  yours  lately — a  Percy  Colston, 
somebody  brought  here.  I  don't  take  to  him  much 
myself,  but  Buttercup  says  he  makes  her  laugh,  though 
that  ain't  hard  to  do.  He's  not  been  to  his  own  country 
for  ten  years,  he  says,  and,  as  I  told  him,  he  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  himself.  And  the  way  he  talks  French, 
too!  Now,  I  hope  you  won't  get  Parisian  and  forget 
where  you're  from,  like  him." 

"  If  I  do,  nobody  else  will,  at  all  events,"  he  laughed. 
"  You  see,  I  still  speak  American  French." 

"  I'd  be  sorry  if  you  spoke  any  other  sort,"  she  said, 
reprovingly.  "  I  guess  it's  living  over  here  that  makes 
Percy  Colston  so  pert;  he  advised  me  to  turn  somer- 
saults on  a  mattress,  mornings,  to  get  thin — said  it 
was  better  than  Marienbad.  Somersaults,  indeed!  I 
nearly  boxed  his  ears  for  him !  "  And  Miss  Zenobia's 
bosom  rose  in  resuscitated  offence.  She  was  proud  of 
her  health,  having,  as  she  was  fond  of  asserting,  "  a 
constitution  of  iron,"  and  corpulence  was  her  principal 
preoccupation.  She  wrestled  with  it  like  Jacob  with 
the  angel.  But  the  inches  round  her  waist  increased 
like  the  love-string  round  her  neck — as  though  it  were 
a  race  between  them. 

Buttercup  burst  into  the  room  in  her  cheerful,  cyclonic 
style.  Her  cheeks  glowed  under  a  cloud  of  motor  veil 
that  streamed  behind  like  the  tail  of  a  comet.  She 
breathlessly  apologised  for  lateness. 

H2 


ioo  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

"  Percy  Colston  and  I've  been  out  in  the  Bois,"  she 
announced.  "  You  ought  to  have  seen  the  way  I 
drove  him  back — we  nearly  got  arrested  for  speeding. 
He  almost  had  heart  failure  coming  down  the  Champs 
Elysees,  though  he  pretended  he  was  scared  on  account 
of  Chicot.  Chicot's  under  the  doctor's  care  for  neuras- 
thenia and  can't  stand  excitement,  he  says.  Mr.  Col- 
ston's too  absurd  for  words.  Did  aunt  tell  you  what  he 
said  about  her  iron  constitution  ?  That  it  must  have 
been  drawn  up  by  Thomas  Jefferson  ?  That's  because 
she's  so  patriotic,  you  know.  He  recommended  some 
Delsarte  that  rather  startled  her.  But  they  kissed  and 
made  up,  and  he  brought  her  a  cat'seye  for  her  love- 
string."  And  she  laughed  in  her  hearty  way.  "  We 
expect  you  to  go  on  the  Touraine  trip — they  say  the 
roads  are  grand." 

"  I'm  afraid  I  can't,"  Harding  answered.  "  You 
see,  I've  got  my  book  to  finish." 

"  Oh,  bother  the  old  book,"  she  said,  with  the  irre- 
sponsibility of  youth  and  a  millionaire  father.  '  You 
might  just  as  well  come  and  enjoy  yourself.  Your 
work  can  wait — and  you  need  a  change." 

She  left  them,  to  reappear,  after  a  half  hour,  dressed 
as  though  for  a  ball. 

They  went  down  to  the  main  dining-room,  where 
their  entrance  created  general  interest.  A  Frenchman, 
at  a  neighbouring  table,  screwed  his  glass  into  his  eye 
to  get  a  better  focus  on  Buttercup's  brilliant  looks  and 
more  brilliant  attire. 

"  How  that  man  stares,"  Miss  Baxter  remarked  in  a 


THE  QUEST  101 

carrying  voice.  "  I  believe  it's  my  cheeks.  People 
are  always  saying  I  rouge." 

"  Of  course,  he  stares,"  Miss  Zenobia  returned 
comfortably.  "  Everybody  over  here  notices  you. 
You  ought  to  be  accustomed  to  it  by  this  time.  And 
no  wonder.  They  don't  often  see  anything  that  comes 
up  to  an  American  girl.  " 

The  conversation  grated  on  Harding,  who  wondered 
if  time  would  suppress  the  young  woman's  too  audible 
tones  in  public  places,  and  her  taste  for  flamboyant 
attire  that  was  even  more  vociferous.  If  it  was  only  a 
matter,  as  Miss  Vanderhurst  said,  of  "  sandpapering 
her  down,"  he  had  depressing  visions  of  having  to  order 
sandpaper  by  the  great  gross. 

When  dinner  was  over,  Miss  Zenobia  joined  some 
hotel  acquaintances  for  a  game  of  bridge,  leaving 
Harding  to  a  tete-d-tete  with  her  niece.  The  oppor- 
tunity, now  that  it  had  arrived,  was  not  as  inspiring  as 
he  had  hoped  it  would  be.  He  felt  he  lacked  will  and 
words,  somehow,  to  take  proper  advantage  of  it. 
There  was  something  oppressively  commonplace  in 
the  little  salon,  furnished  in  Maple  and  Co.'s  style  with 
its  sallow  gilt  and  smirking  satins.  The  bisque  clock 
kept  up  a  matter-of-fact  ticking  on  the  mantelpiece — 
it  had  apparently  outlived  interest  in  the  love-making 
which  hallowed  the  retreat. 

"  So  you  won't  go  with  us  on  the  motor  trip  ?  " 
Buttercup  demanded,  examining  her  finger  nails  on 
which  a  manicurist  had  laboured  a  good  part  of  the 
morning.  No  one  could  accuse  them  of  lacking  polish, 


102  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

whatever  might  be  said  of  their  owner.  "  I  think  it's 
horrid  of  you.  You  know  your  book  is  only  an 
excuse." 

It  was  indeed  the  only  excuse  he  could  give;  the 
plea  of  a  rapidly  flattening  pocket-book  could  not  be 
advanced.  Harding  defended  himself.  It  took  time 
and  ingenuity.  But,  at  last,  he  put  it  in  such  a  way 
that  she  reluctantly  withdrew  the  charge.  Then  the 
conversation  flowed  into  other  channels.  Miss  Baxter 
gave  a  lively  account  of  her  amusements  since  she  had 
seen  him  last.  His  offence,  however,  evidently 
lingered  behind  her  conceding  animations.  And,  after 
awhile,  she  remarked  abruptly: 

"  Mr.  Colston  tells  me  you  dined  with  some  friends  of 
his  last  week — the  Eversleys.  He  said  the  daughter 
is  conceited,  and  the  dead  serious  kind.  Did  you  find 
her  so?  " 

"  She's  rather  serious,  yes,"  he  answered. 

"  And  quite  intellectual,  I  suppose  ?  I  should  think 
you'd  find  her  congenial,  then.  Own  up,  isn't  that  why 
you  don't  want  to  leave  Paris  ?  " 

"  Hardly.     Besides,  I've  only  seen  her  twice." 

"  How  about  love  at  first  sight  ?  " 

He  laughed,  remembering  his  snubbing.  "  I  can't 
say  that  the  sight  of  Miss  Eversley  had  that  effect  on 
me.  I'm  not  particularly  attracted  by  '  intellectual 
girls,'  you  see." 

i  "  Oh,"  with  an  air  of  half  resentment.  "  I  suppose, 
then,  that's  why  you  like  me." 

"  I  like  you  for  the  best  of  reasons,"  he  said.    "  Be- 


THE  QUEST  103 

cause  you  are  you — and  not  Miss  Eversley,  nor  any- 
body else.  After  all,  does  one  ever  know  just  why  one 
likes  a  person?  " 

Miss  Buttercup  looked  as  though  she  thought  she 
could  guess  why  some  people  liked  her,  though  the  fact 
didn't  seem  especially  to  disturb  her.  Again  she 
regarded  her  nails,  which  were  as  rosy  as  love's  young 
dreams. 

It  was  plainly  the  psychological  moment.  Harding 
knew  that  it  was — yet  he  let  it  fade.  Miss  Buttercup, 
her  head  propped  by  piled-up  sofa  pillows,  was  certainly 
good  to  look  at.  Her  high  note  of  costume,  which  had 
grated  on  him  in  the  dining  room,  was  swallowed  up  by 
the  far  guiltier  floridness  of  the  little  salon.  There 
was  a  pleasant  animal  health  about  Miss  Buttercup 
Baxter — and  she  promised  to  be  handsomer  after  a 
year  or  two.  She  was  rather  tall,  and  she  carried  herself 
well.  An  abundance  of  chestnut  hair  fell  attractively 
about  her  bright  cheeks,  a  little  freckled  by  sun,  for  she 
was  fond  of  being  out  of  doors,  and  excelled  in  golf  and 
tennis.  She  declared  that  she  had  never  been  ill  nor 
bored — and  everything  about  her  endorsed  this. 

The  catechising  had  come  after  a  considerable  inter- 
val of  time,  during  which  she  had,  among  other  topics, 
touched  on  his  literary  work.  It  was  rather  a  worn 
subject  between  them,  one  she  often  broached,  no 
doubt  to  please  him  and  make  herself  agreeable.  He 
had  rather  liked  discussing  his  story  with  her;  for  she 
was  not  lacking  in  intelligence,  and  her  criticisms  had 
the  good  sense  that  might  be  expected  of  a  successful 


104  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

business  man's  daughter.  But  to-night  it  bored 
Harding;  he  felt  the  gulf  between  them.  What  would 
their  relations  be,  spiritually  speaking,  except  that  of  a 
Pyramus  and  Thisbe — whispering  through  the  crevice 
of  a  wall  ?  After  all,  could  anything  compensate  for  a 
marriage  of  half  sympathies  ? 

Yet  he  still  intended  to  propose  to  her. 

He  even  started  to  frame  the  words,  as  the  lateness 
of  the  hour,  registered  by  the  over-ornamental  time- 
piece, warned  him  his  chance  was  slipping  by.  Some- 
thing checked  the  declaration.  The  hands  of  the 
clock,  on  which  he  fixed  his  eyes,  seemed  to  make 
mesmeric  passes,  paralysing  his  tongue  as  he  sought  to 
shape  the  phrases  of  love. 

"You're  coming  back  to  Paris,  I  suppose?"  he 
faltered,  grasping  at  that  straw  of  procrastination. 

"  I  don't  know."  Her  tone  was  stiff.  "  We  haven't 
made  any  plans  beyond  the  motor  trip.  Aunt  wants 
to  go  to  Marienbad,  and  I'm  thinking  of  taking  singing 
lessons  in  Berlin,  next  winter." 

"  So  it's  good-bye.  ..." 

"  Yes — unless  you  change  your  mind,  and  join  us  in 
the  Touraine  tour.  I  think,"  she  added,  after  a  little 
pause,  "  of  asking  Percy  Colston,  in  case  you  don't." 

He  felt  a  jealous  twinge.  "  You  know  him  well 
enough  for  that  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  you  mean,  does  he  know  me  well  enough 
to  accept?  "  and  she  gave  a  slight  laugh,  that  showed 
she  had  her  touch  of  cynicism.  "  I  guess  he  will. 
.  .  .  People  like  motoring  whether  or  not  they  like  you. 


THE  QUEST  105 

And  he's  called  three  times,"  she  concluded,  as  if  that 
was  intimacy. 

Harding  wondered  how  she  had  met  him,  but  he  did 
not  inquire.  Colston  hadn't  lost  any  time  in  getting 
on  the  Baxters'  trail.  The  thought  of  a  friendship 
between  Buttercup  and  the  poet  annoyed  him,  as  if  it 
were  an  infringement  of  personal  rights. 

He  made  no  reply,  and  she  added:  "  Of  course,  I'd 
much  rather  have  you." 

It  was  uttered  with  conciliatory  sweetness,  but  he 
had  not  mastered  his  pique,  and  he  returned  formally, 

"  No  doubt  you'll  find  him  quite  amusing." 

His  annoyance  seemed  to  give  her  pleasure — perhaps 
she  augured  a  change  of  mind  on  his  part  as  the  result 
of  it.  But  she  refrained  from  pressing  him  further, 
and  talked  animatedly  about  the  roads,  the  best  hotels 
to  stop  at,  and  the  likely  diversions  by  the  way.  It 
was  not  until  parting  that  she  reiterated:  "  If  you 
change  your  mind  ..." 

She  said  it  rather  oddly,  and  without  looking  at  him. 

At  last  he  was  out  in  the  street — and  he  had  not 
spoken.  The  clear  night  was  refreshing  in  its  velvety 
coolness,  after  the  stuffy  atmosphere  of  the  hotel. 
The  daffodil-coloured  lights  of  the  Boulevards  sparkled 
gaily  through  the  gloom.  There  was  exhilaration  in  it 
all — the  brilliant  cafes,  the  crowds  emptying  from  the 
theatres,  the  cries  of  camelots,  the  sense  of  living,  at 
full  pulse,  that  frothed  like  champagne  in  a  cup. 
Harding  felt  his  blood  stir  in  response.  He  had  not 
spoken,  he  was  still  free.  Liberty  never  seemed  so 


106  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

dear  as  at  that  moment,  when  he  had  come  so  near 
losing  it  by  an  act  that  might  or  not  have  been  best — 
he  did  not  know.  He  only  felt  the  intoxication  of  his 
freedom — freedom  to  do  as  he  chose,  to  seek  his  way 
through  life  as  his  instincts  dictated.  A  feeling  of 
pride,  of  talent,  flooded  his  heart.  He  would  not 
accept  the  mean  bribes  of  life,  yield  to  caressing  servi- 
tudes. He  was,  and  would  remain,  true  to  himself. 
And  as  his  mood  threw  the  challenge  to  fate,  he  felt, 
like  a  vibrant  chord,  that  thrill  of  egotism  which  some- 
times exalts  us  in  the  face  of  desperate  situations. 

Yet,  on  his  return  to  his  room,  he  experienced  the 
reaction  which  so  often  followed  his  mental  exaltations. 
He  had  seated  himself  at  his  desk,  in  a  mood  to  con- 
tinue the  chapter  on  which  he  had  laboured  before 
going  out  that  evening.  He  had  been  pleased  with 
what  he  had  written:  now  as  he  glanced  over  it,  it 
struck  him  as  poor,  without  effect.  In  the  intervening 
hours  its  seeming  gold  had  turned  to  dross.  With  a 
feeling  of  oppression  he  turned  back,  glancing  over  this 
or  that  page  of  the  manuscript.  All  appeared  to  have 
undergone  some  subtle  chemical  change,  like  paints 
that  when  applied  glow  richly  only  to  fade  to  false, 
sickly  tones  after  they  are  dry. 

So  the  book  on  which  rested  his  salvation,  was 
nothing,  after  all !  He  had  taken  midnight  coin  of  the 
elves — to  wake  on  the  morning  and  find  the  wealth  a 
handful  of  leaves. 

He  thrust  the  manuscript  aside  roughly,  and  sat 
staring  before  him.  He  seemed  to  see  the  long,  white 


THE  GUEST  107 

road  of  the  years;  himself  plodding  on,  with  burdened 
shoulders,  parched  with  choking  dust.  Courage 
dropped  like  a  mantle  that  had  broken  its  clasp,  leaving 
him  to  the  chill  of  realities.  Was  not  artistic  aspira- 
tion, all  aspiration,  but  the  device  of  life  to  lure  him 
on  to  his  own  defeat  ?  For  a  few  trivial  sheets  of 
writing,  that  the  world  would  scorn,  he  had  rejected 
ease  and  the  end  of  the  futile  struggle  to  live  through 
and  by  his  own  efforts.  How  wearisome  was  poverty, 
how  wearisome,  in  truth,  was  everything! 

He  got  up,  after  a  while,  and  went  out  on  his  balcony. 
The  air  was  full  of  stars  dimmed  by  the  glory  of  a  full 
moon  that  lay  in  the  west  like  a  magnolia  blossom 
afloat  on  enchanted  waters.  He  could  see  the  vast 
silhouette  of  Notre  Dame  rising,  a  film-like  mass,  in 
the  mild  silver-misted  night. 

He  thought  of  the  centuried  grotesques  that  watched 
from  those  shadowy  pinnacles.  He  knew  them  all, 
from  many  a  toilsome  climb  up  the  winding  stone  steps 
that  lead  to  the  soaring  inferno  of  mediaeval  genius, 
knew  them  from  musing  hours  when,  like  hundreds 
of  others,  he  gazed  down  on  Paris,  pondering  over  it, 
pondering  over  life. 

He  had  called  Notre  Dame  "  His  Lady,"  feeling 
sometimes  that  its  shadow  fell  like  a  benediction  on 
work  and  dreams.  Yet  was  it  not  rather  "  the  exceed- 
ing high  mount  "  of  the  Tempter  ?  It  was  there,  leaning 
over  the  parapets,  that  the  sadness  and  mockery  of  life 
oftenest  came  to  him — there,  amongst  the  leering 
demons,* that  host  of  nightmare  creatures,  chewing  the 


io8  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

cud  of  evil  merriment,  jesting  over  that  thing  called 
man,  the  human  farce  enacted  under  their  eyes.  The 
Styge,  arch  fiend  of  the  unclean  rout,  thrusting  its 
tongue  out  derisively  as  it  kept  watch  through  the 
years,  had  seemed  to  whisper  devilish  counsel.  There 
had  been  times,  he  knew,  when  that  Walpurgisnacht 
atmosphere  of  unholy  creatures  tempted  to  madness — 
times  when  he  fled  the  influence  of  their  perpetual 
Sabbat  lest  his  courage,  his  hope,  his  manliness  be 
overpowered.  Notre  Dame  ...  it  was,  in  sooth,  a 
"  Mountain  of  Mystery." 

As  he  watched  and  mused,  lounging  on  his  balcony, 
the  unrests  that  took  him  on  his  Dantesque  pilgrimages 
to  that  heaven-high  Hell  filled  his  heart.  He  was  of 
an  age  on  which  lay  the  heavy  weight  of  material 
necessity.  And  he  ...  was  only  a  dreamer,  that  was  the 
supreme  mockery — a  dreamer,  with  no  right  to  dream ! 


109 


CHAPTER  VII 

UNDER  the  impulse  of  reaction,  he  wrote  a  note, 
telling  Buttercup  that  he  would  accept  her  invitation. 
But  his  night's  rest  changed  the  mood,  and  he  did  not 
send  it.  He  had  forgotten  to  ask  what  day  she  was 
leaving  Paris,  and  when  he  called  at  her  hotel  the  next 
afternoon,  he  learned  that  the  Baxters  had  already 
left.  It  was  more  of  a  shock  than  he  would  have 
supposed,  and  following  close  upon  it  came  the  idea 
of  calling  upon  Miss  Eversley,  which  impulse  he  obeyed 
without  stopping  to  analyse  it. 

Miss  Eversley  was  out,  but  the  servant  said  he  would 
see  if  Mrs.  Eversley  were  at  home,  so  he  ushered 
Harding  into  the  salon  while  he  himself  went  upstairs. 

As  Harding  waited,  he  noted  idly  the  room's  fine 
evidences  of  taste ;  the  gilded  chairs  covered  with  good 
Belgian  tapestries,  the  Braccia  marble  chimney-piece 
with  a  big-eyed  Psyche  by  Clodion,  the  discreet  note  of 
colour  here  and  there,  the  pieces  of  bronze  and  old 
Saxe. 

Presently  he  caught  the  sound  of  voices  from  the 
adjoining  salon,  across  the  doorway  of  which  a  portiere 
was  lightly  drawn.  One  he  recognised  as  Mrs. 
Eversley's,  the  other  from  its  hesitant  way  of  speaking 
he  judged  to  be  that  of  the  sculptor  Fernet. 

"  But  I  assure  you  Mr.  Colston  didn't  tell  you  the 


no  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

truth,"  Mrs.  Eversley  said  with  some  emphasis. 
"  I  never  opposed  your  attentions  to  my  daughter. 
Quite  the  contrary.  But  she  is  very  much  her  own 
mistress.  I  can't  control  her,  I  only  wish  I  could.  .  .  . 
She  has  the  absurd  idea  that  she  must  devote  herself 
to  art  and  charities.  She  insists  she  doesn't  want  to 
marry." 

He  made  some  reply  that  Mrs.  Eversley  interrupted 
sharply:  "  But  that's  unjust  ...  I  am  not  under  Mr. 
Colston's  influence.  Nor  do  I  support  him  in  his  quarrel 
with  you.  I  think  him  in  the  wrong.  I  tell  you  that, 
of  course,  in  confidence.  I  regret  it  should  be  about 
Monica.  Naturally,  I  shouldn't  sacrifice  my  daughter's 
happiness  to  him.  I  promise  you.  .  .  ." 

Harding  had  already  coughed  to  warn  them  of  his 
presence;  he  succeeded  only  the  second  time  in 
attracting  attention.  There  was  a  silence.  Then  Mrs. 
Eversley,  pushing  back  the  curtain,  appeared,  looking 
disconcerted.  Harding  got  the  impression  that  she 
thought  him  Percy  Colston.  At  the  sight  of  him,  at  all 
events,  her  face  lost  its  guilty  expression  of  one  caught 
in  a  conspiracy. 

"Oh!  Mr.  Harding!"  she  said,  in  a  half -gasp. 
"  How  stupid  of  that  new  servant  not  to  know  I  was 
in  the  little  salon!  M.  Fernet  and  I  think  it  cosier. 
You  have  met  each  other,  I  believe?  " 

He  followed  her  into  the  next  room,  where  Fernet 
had  waited. 

The  two  men  bowed,  the  sculptor  with  evident 
stiffness  and  embarrassment,  and  he  took  his  leave  after 


THE  QUEST  in 

a  few  seconds  of  superficial  conversation.  As  he  kissed 
his  hostess's  hand,  he  murmured  something  about 
seeing  her  soon. 

Harding  expressed  regret  at  having  interrupted 
her. 

"  Oh,  I  am  very  glad  you  came,  I  assure  you,"  she 
returned  with  a  pretty  shrug  of  relief  which  did  not 
bear  conviction.  "  M.  Fernet  called  about  a  rather 
delicate  matter,  it's  true,  but  for  that  reason  I  was  not 
sorry  to  end  the  talk." 

She  hesitated,  and  he  saw  that  she  was  weighing  the 
advisability  of  correcting  the  impressions  he  might 
have  gathered.  That  he  had  heard  part  of  the  conver- 
sation, she  could  hardly  doubt,  but  it  was  a  question  of 
how  much.  Harding  himself  felt  uncomfortable  over 
the  knowledge  thrust  upon  him,  that  there  was  a 
quarrel  between  Fernet  and  Colston,  and  that  it  was 
about  Monica  Eversley.  He  was  a  little  curious  as 
to  Mrs.  Eversley's  real  attitude.  He  had  discovered  her 
apparently  intriguing  with  the  sculptor  against  his 
friend.  Was  it  only  a  blind? 

From  her  preparatory  air,  he  saw  Mrs.  Eversley  had 
decided  on  confidences.  He  doubted,  however,  that 
they  would  be  genuine.  She  sighed  prettily.  He  had 
learned  that  sighs  often  preceded  confidences. 

"  You  haven't  any  idea,  Mr.  Harding,  in  what  a 
delicate  position  a  mother  is  often  placed,"  she  said 
mournfully.  "  Miss  Vanderhurst  may  have  told  you 
that  M.  Fernet  is  devoted  to  my  daughter.  There 
has  been  some  little  talk  about  it,  unfortunately, 


ii2  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

because  she  doesn't  care  for  him,  and  M.  Fernet  has 
the  French  notion  that  I  ought  to  coerce  her.  He 
doesn't  understand  us  Anglo-Saxons,  you  see,  or  how 
we  look  on  marriage.  Of  course  I  wouldn't,  I  couldn't 
persuade  Monica  to  marry  unless  she  wished  to.  But 
sometimes  one  must  be  diplomatic,  though  I  hate  it, 
in  regard  to  such  things.  So  to-day  I  have  been  sooth- 
ing poor  M.  Fernet  by  telling  him  I  would  do  what  I 
could.  Of  course  it  was  only  to  spare  him.  He's  so 
nice,  and  I  wouldn't  treat  him  otherwise  than  sweetly ! 
5>ut  what  a  horror  I  have  of  marriage  without  senti- 
ment !  I  am  too  much  a  woman  of  heart  to  urge  any- 
one, least  of  all  my  daughter,  to  such  a  mistake.  Of 
course  you  will  not  say  anything  about  it  to  Mr. 
Colston — "  her  confident  smile  was  a  command  to  his 
sense  of  honour,  and  she  resumed  with  graceful  light- 
ness: "  Now  let  us  forget  about  poor  M.  Fernet's 
troubles,  and  have  some  tea." 

She  rang,  and  settled  herself  comfortably  among  the 
cushions  of  her  arm-chair.  Her  smile  flatteringly 
suggested  that  an  intimate  chat  with  him  was  of  all 
things  what  she  most  desired.  He  saw  she  was  satis- 
fied that  any  unpleasant  inferences  he  might  have 
drawn  from  her  talk  with  the  sculptor,  had  been  dis- 
sipated. He  wondered  why  she  should  have  troubled 
about  the  situation,  unless  it  was  fear  of  Percy  Colston, 
and  then  she  would  have  reflected  on  his  own  gentle- 
manliness. 

"It  surprises  me  that  you  are  in  Paris,"  Mrs. 
Eversley  resumed.  "  I  thought  you,  like  Mr.  Colston, 


THE  QUEST  113 

had  gone  on  the  Baxters'  motoring  trip.  Miss  Baxter 
is  quite  a  friend  of  yours,  is  she  not  ?  From  what  Miss 
Vanderhurst  rather  hinted,  I  fancy  I  might  almost 
offer  my  congratulations  to  you." 

"  Miss  Vanderhurst  can  hardly  have  said  more  than 
that  we  are  friends;  that  much,  at  all  events,  is  quite 
true,"  Harding  answered. 

"Then  it  is  a  mistake?  "  She  paused  to  gather 
reafnrmation,  and  accordingly  read  it  in  his  embarrass- 
ment. "So  I  shall  be  frank  if  I  may,  and  say  I  am 
rather  glad.  It  doesn't  seem — from  what  I  hear — 
that  it  would  have  been  the  match  for  a  man  like  you, 
Mr.  Harding.  You  see  I  speak  quite  as  though  I  were 
an  old  friend.  But  you  know,  Miss  Vanderhurst 
asked  me  to  take  you  under  my  wing.  And  young 
men  do  need  us  women  at  times !  I  am  only  sorry  I've 
had  so  little  opportunity  thus  far  of  seeing  you,  and  we 
are  leaving  shortly  for  the  seashore.  You  know 
Normandy,  Mr.  Harding  ?  Yes,  I  should  have  insisted 
on  your  coming  oftener  if  I  hadn't  understood  that 
Miss  Baxter  had  first  claim  on  your  time." 

"  It  has  only  been  my  work  which  kept  me  rather 
close,"  said  Harding. 

"  I  am  glad  it  was  your  work,"  returned  Mrs. 
Eversley  with  a  little  air  of  earnestness.  "  Indeed,  I 
rather  wondered,  after  I  met  you,  at  what  Miss 
Vanderhurst  hinted.  Nothing  seems  to  me  such  a  pity 
as  these  unequal  marriages.  And  Miss  Buttercup 
Baxter — that  is  her  odd,  Pinafore  sort  of  a  name,  isn't 
it  ? — must  be  a  trifle  crude.  A  grocer's  daughter,  is 

i 


H4  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

she  not?  You  can  imagine  my  surprise  when  Mr. 
Colston  accepted  their  motoring  invitation.  They 
must  naturally  be  socially  ambitious;  people  of  that 
class  usually  are;  and  of  course  Mr.  Colston's  position 
is  calculated  to  arouse — well,  hopes  that  would  scarcely 
be  confirmed  by  events.  Percy  Colston  couldn't  consider 
Miss  Buttercup  Baxter.  He  is  far  too  fastidious,  too 
privileged,  so  I  can't  help  feeling  it  was  inconsiderate 
of  him  to  accept  their  hospitality." 

Her  sweet,  semi-virginal  voice  robbed  the  speech  of 
some  of  its  ill-nature.  He  saw  that  she  was  uneasy 
about  Colston  and  the  Baxters.  Was  she  in  love  with 
the  "  privileged  Percy,"  or  only  desirous  of  having  him 
remain  in  the  family?  He  had  "  taken  her  up";  it 
would  be  rather  annoying  to  be  laid  down  for  a  Butter- 
cup Baxter.  Apparently  she  guessed  his  thoughts, 
for  she  went  on  quickly. 

"  You  see,  I  am  so  much  interested  in  my  friends ! 
After  all,  it  is  among  the  few  things  left  us  older 
women."  She  smiled  with  what  he  thought  some 
courage;  for  Mrs.  Eversley  to  admit  the  principle  of 
age  was  a  heroism.  Still,  no  doubt,  she  suspected  Miss 
Vanderhurst  had  told  him  the  truth  about  her  being 
old  enough  to  have  a  grown  daughter.  "  I  am  simple 
in  my  tastes.  You  see  how  I  am  occupying  myself." 

Still  smiling,  she  held  up  a  bit  of  cobwebby  em- 
broidery. It  was  not  new,  as  her  maid  could  have  told 
Harding;  like  Mrs.  Eversley,  it  had  a  misleading 
youthfulness.  She  rather  liked  to  have  it  in  her  hands 
when  she  chatted  with  young  men.  It  somehow  paved 


THE  QUEST  115 

the  way  to  her  effective  confessions.  Mrs.  Eversley's 
confessions  were  no  more  real  than  her  complexion  or 
the  colour  of  her  hair,  but  they  had  their  peculiar 
charm,  and  she  found  they  called  forth  confidences 
from  others.  There  was  a  faint  odour  clinging  about 
the  little  salon  which  seemed  eloquent  of  pretty  past 
romances.  He  wondered  whether  Monica  ever  entered 
it  without  duly  announcing  herself.  He  could  fancy 
her  avoiding  her  mother's  private  theatricals. 

"  But  you  must  tell  me  about  your  work,"  Mrs. 
Eversley  said  briskly.  "  Miss  Vanderhurst  says  your 
poems  have  been  so  flatteringly  mentioned  by  the 
critics,  I  do  wish  you  would  give  me  an  author's  copy. 
I'm  devoted  to  poetry." 

He  promised,  looking  more  complimented  than  he 
felt.  She  went  on  to  ask  the  usual  questions,  the  name 
of  his  novel,  when  it  would  be  finished,  whether  his 
heroine  was  a  real  girl  or  if  he  had  made  her  up;  and 
having  obtained  answers  whose  evasiveness  perfectly 
satisfied  her,  she  then  wanted  to  know  if  he  intended 
making  his  home  in  Paris,  next  asked  how  long  he 
would  remain,  when  he  said  it  depended  on  his  work, 
and  finally  demanded  his  frank  opinion  as  to  Madame 
de  Kansa,  whom  she  somehow  felt  he  hadn't  altogether 
understood. 

"  Why,  I  thought  her  so  interesting  that  I  went  to 
interview  her,"  Harding  replied.  "  In  fact,  my  very 
last  newspaper  article  was  devoted  to  her.  She  very 
kindly  offered  to  read  my  palm  in  order  to  show  me 
what  her  method  was.  I  assure  you,  I  like  her 

12 


n6  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

sincerely,"  Harding  added  tactfully,  seeing  the 
pleasurable  excitement  which  brightened  Mrs. 
Eversley's  eyes  and  doubtless  would  have  flushed  her 
cheek  if  her  maid  had  not  already  flushed  it  for  her. 

"  She  read  your  palm.  What  did  she  say  ?  "  Mrs. 
Eversley  cried  eagerly. 

"  Oh,  the  usual  thing;  that  I'd  make  lots  of  money 
from  my  book,  would  have  a  real  '  career '  as  she 
expressed  it — in  fact,  she  was  so  flattering  that  I  can't 
believe  a  word  of  it." 

"  Oh,  but  you  must !  If  Madame  de  Kansa  said  it, 
you  can  count  on  its  being  absolutely  true.  I  believe 
implicitly  in  everything  she  says."  He  felt  that  this 
incident  had  made  a  great  difference  in  her  opinion 
of  him.  She  was  even  more  gracious  for  the  rest  of 
their  talk. 

Harding  had  some  concert  tickets  which  Nicolls 
had  sent  him,  and  it  occurred  to  him  it  might  be  a 
politeness  to  offer  them  to  Mrs.  Eversley  and  her 
daughter.  While  he  was  still  speaking  of  them,  Monica 
entered  the  house,  and  her  mother  called  her  to  the 
salon. 

Monica  had  already  had  tea;  she  had  been  with 
Elsie  Fitzgerald  talking  of  the  Amies  des  Pauvres. 
Mrs.  Eversley  threw  in  what  he  imagined  was  a 
characteristic  deprecatory  remark  about  these  working 
crazes  among  modern  society  girls.  Miss  Eversley 
frowned  slightly,  as  if  she  resented  such  personalities 
before  a  stranger,  and  Harding  understood  Miss 
Vanderhurst's  comment  on  the  lack  of  congeniality 


THE  QUEST  117 

between  mother  and  daughter.  To  change  the  dis- 
tasteful subject,  Mrs.  Eversley  asked  if  Monica  would 
go  to  hear  Ysaye  on  the  following  Thursday,  since 
Mr.  Harding  had  kindly  offered  to  take  them;  Monica 
refused  on  the  plea  of  a  Working  Girls'  Club. 

Harding  got  up  to  go.  Mrs.  Eversley  pressed  his 
hand  with  pleasant  warmth. 

"If  we  don't  see  you  again  before  we  go  away," 
she  said,  "  you  must  come  to  see  us  next  autumn  as 
soon  as  we  return.  He  must  decide  to  remain  in  Paris, 
mustn't  he,  Monica?  " 

"  I  imagine  Mr.  Harding  is  the  best  judge  of  that," 
was  all  Monica  found  to  say. 

"  But  you  forget  he  is  a  writer.  You  certainly  agree 
that  Paris  is  a  much  better  place  than  America  for  a 
literary  man." 

But  the  atmosphere  most  favourable  to  literary  life 
did  not  seem  to  interest  Miss  Eversley  in  the  least. 


n8 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  fact  that  Percy  Colston  was  motoring  with  the 
Baxters,  of  which  Harding  was  first  made  aware 
through  Mrs.  Eversley,  was  confirmed  by  a  pictured 
post-card  sent  him  from  Tours  by  Buttercup.  Others 
followed,  and  all  made  reference  to  the  poet.  He  was  so 
amusing  and  useful :  added  so  much  to  the  pleasure  of 
the  trip.  Harding  smiled  ironically,  as  he  read  these 
underscored  ecstasies.  As  the  days  passed,  the  post- 
cards (Harding  asked  himself  if  they  had  not  a  grain 
of  malice)  fluttered  to  him  less  frequently.  At  last, 
they  ceased  altogether. 

Meanwhile,  he  had  applied  himself  so  determinedly 
to  his  book  that  he  got  it  done.  Having  dispatched  it 
to  an  American  firm,  with  which  he  had  had  some 
dealing  on  the  subject,  he  would  gladly  have  recalled 
it — circumstances  permitting — through  artist  dis- 
satisfactions. But  art  was  long,  his  pocket  short — so 
short,  indeed,  that  he  had  been  forced  to  ask  for  a  sum 
down  in  case  of  acceptance.  The  amount  demanded 
was  modest,  but  even  so  it  was  a  venturesome  stipula- 
tion to  make,  considering  it  was  a  first  novel,  and  he 
was  not  hopeful  about  its  being  granted.  But  the  book 
was  a  gamble — his  "  last  throw,"  as  he  phrased  it  to 
himself — and  he  concluded  he  might  as  well  risk  the 
extra  hazard. 


THE  QUEST  119 

The  manuscript  off  his  hands,  Harding  felt  the  blank 
of  an  occupation  gone.  He  was  consumed,  too,  with 
uneasiness  about  his  uncertain  future.  This,  with  the 
fatigue  following  on  weeks  of  hard  work,  left  him  in  a 
state  of  mind  unfitting  him  for  any  further  literary 
efforts  for  the  moment.  Unaccustomed  to  being  idle, 
he  scarce  knew  what  to  do  with  his  time.  The  craving 
for  society  was  on  him,  though  less  for  people  he  knew 
slightly  than  for  those  to  whom  he  could  talk  at  ease. 
But  Nicolls  was  his  only  close  friend  in  Paris,  and  him 
he  preferred  to  avoid  while  waiting  for  news  of  his 
book.  Nicolls  had  remonstrated  with  him  over  his 
imprudence  in  throwing  up  his  journalistic  work  in  the 
spirit  he  had,  and  pride  withheld  him  from  stopping 
in  at  that  office  while  he  had  no  proofs  to  show  that  his 
strike  for  independence  was  justified.  He  accordingly 
spent  a  good  deal  of  time  in  long  solitary  rambles 
through  parts  of  Paris  still  unfamiliar  to  him. 

It  was  towards  the  close  of  June  when,  one  afternoon, 
in  wandering  along  a  by-path  of  the  Bois,  he  caught 
sight  of  Miss  Eversley,  seated  on  a  bench,  some  dis- 
tance in  front  of  him. 

Surprised,  for  he  had  supposed  that  she  and  her 
mother  had  left  Paris,  he  hesitated,  undecided  whether 
to  advance  or  turn  and  avoid  an  encounter  which 
might  only  reward  him  with  another  snubbing.  He 
had  thought  her  manner  decidedly  unfriendly  the  day 
he  called  on  Mrs.  Eversley.  But  there  is  a  fascination 
for  some  in  the  distaste  people  apparently  have  for 
them :  it  challenges  human  vanity  to  try  and  overcome 


120  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

it.  And  Harding  remembered  that  he  had  vowed  to 
make  Monica  Eversley  like  him,  and,  thereupon,  he 
continued  his  stroll. 

She  did  not  notice  his  approach.  The  picture  Miss 
Eversley  made,  seated  under  a  spreading  beech,  was 
attractive.  She  had  on  a  white  serge  walking  skirt  and 
silk  blouse,  with  a  black  straw  hat,  the  broad  brim  of 
which  shaded  her  eyes.  Seemingly,  she  had  sought 
the  shady  retreat  to  read,  but  the  volume  she  had 
borne  thither  lay  unheeded  on  her  lap,  and  she  appeared 
to  be  watching  a  squirrel  that,  stationed  at  a  discreet 
distance,  regarded  her  brightly,  its  tiny  paws  crossed 
like  an  elf  at  prayer.  Her  present  posture  had  less  of 
the  stiff,  young  grace  which  had  amused  him  the  day 
of  the  garden  f^te,  when  she  had  left  him  to  join  the 
other  actors,  sweeping  her  robes  across  the  lawn  with 
queenly  disdain  of  his  trivialities.  It  had,  he  reflected, 
been  a  declaration  of  war  between  them  from  their  first 
meeting.  Yet  to-day  she  struck  him  as  more  approach- 
able and  human.  He  could  fancy  her  most  herself  in 
the  green  quiet  of  such  surroundings.  Certainly  they 
suited  her  better  than  the  sophisticated  background  of 
her  mother's  house,  where  Mrs.  Eversley's  artificiality 
was  like  an  aggressive  perfume.  Her  defiance  of  the 
latter's  weakness  expressed  itself  in  her  clothes,  dis- 
regardful  of  all  but  neatness,  her  air  that  plainly  asked 
for  no  masculine  tributes  of  admiration.  As  he  drew 
near,  he  saw  that  she  was  lost  in  meditation,  and  that 
her  face  had  a  trace  of  melancholy.  He  wondered  if 
she  were  trying  to  solve  some  problem  of  life.  No 


THE  QUEST  121 

doubt,  she  had  her  own  difficulties,  after  all,  and 
perhaps  her  cool  composure  concealed  actual  suffering. 
How  little  one  ever  knew  the  truth  about  people. 

At  his  greeting,  she  looked  up  as  though  rather 
rudely  shaken  out  of  her  thoughts.  He  had  expected 
she  would  resent  his  invasion  of  her  solitude,  and  he 
was  surprised  at  the  way  she  shook  hands  with  him. 
It  was  certainly  more  gracious  than  when  they  last 
met. 

At  the  movement,  one  of  the  books  in  her  lap  slipped 
to  the  ground,  and  as  he  picked  it  up  he  noticed,  with 
some  pleasure,  that  it  was  the  copy  of  his  Adonis- 
Garden  for  which  her  mother  had  asked  him. 

"  I  hardly  expected  you  to  pay  my  book  that  com- 
pliment," he  said,  restoring  it  to  her. 

"  I  don't  see  why,"  she  returned,  with  a  matter-of- 
fact  air.  "I'm  rather  fond  of  modern  verse.  A 
number  of  your  things  strike  me  as  very  beautiful — 
especially  the  lyrics." 

Something  in  the  tone  with  which  she  referred  to 
them,  caused  him  to  laugh. 

"  You  were  agreeably  surprised,  then  ?  You  didn't 
expect  you'd  like  anything.  I  can  see  that." 

"  No,  that's  not  true.  But  I  perhaps  thought  they 
would  be  different." 

"In  what  way?  " 

"  Well,  more  personal,  introspective  . . ." 

"  Morbid,  in  short,"  he  interrupted,  supplying  the 
word  he  felt  was  really  in  her  mind. 

"  Yes,  a  little  so,  I  admit,"  at  his  air  of  insistence. 


122  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

"  They  don't  seem  like  you,  exactly — as  I've  found 
you  in  conversation,  I  mean." 

He  seated  himself  beside  her.  "  I  wrote  most  of 
them  years  ago,  you  see.  When  I  was  a  boy,  in  fact. 
That  may  account  for  it.  I  don't  suppose  they  are 
much  like  me  now."  And  a  shade  settled  for  a  moment 
on  his  face,  as  he  looked  at  the  squirrel  which  had 
cautiously  reappeared  to  inspect  the  two.  He  was 
not  thinking  of  squirrels,  but  of  the  difference  the  last 
ten  years  had  wrought  in  him.  What  had  become  of 
his  earlier,  more  hopeful  self,  he  remembered  as 
vaguely  as  half  the  pieces  in  the  volume  Miss  Eversley 
held.  He  seldom  glanced  over  the  Adonis-Garden, 
any  more  than  he  turned  back  the  pages  of  his  ripened 
manhood.  He  had  laid  aside  his  passion  for  writing 
poetry,  with  so  many  other  things.  Yet  it  sometimes 
gave  him  a  pang  to  think  the  impulse  was  dead  in  him. 
Her  words,  too,  recalled  the  thought  of  the  one  love 
that  had  been  the  inspiration  and  disappointment  of 
his  New  York  life.  He  had  never  tried  writing  verse 
after  it  had  ended  in  the  taste  of  ashes.  It  had,  he 
was  bitterly  persuaded,  snapped  in  his  spirit  the  last 
of  the  seven  strings  worn  by  hardship,  disillusion,  and 
the  dry-rot  of  living. 

Then  he  went  on  with  forced  lightness: 

"  Time,  you  know,  is  apt  to  knock  the  poetry  out  of 
one,  even  if  one  retains  the  knack  of  rhyming.  Besides, 
verse-making  is  a  luxury  few  can  afford,  these  days. 
To  scrape  a  living  with  the  pen,  one  has  to  write  novels. 
They're  the  vulgar  necessity  of  authorship.  The 


THE  QUEST  123 

rewards  are  not  magnificent,  but,  at  least,  it's  an  im- 
provement on  verse-writing.  It's  the  commutation  of 
a  sentence  of  death  by  starvation  to  one  of  life  im- 
prisonment on  bread  and  water." 

And  he  smiled  at  her  as  he  dug  at  a  tuft  of  grass  with 
his  stick.  He  was  not  unattractive,  with  his  long 
figure  and  thin,  expressive  face.  There  was  not  much 
of  the  "  Man  with  the  Glove  "  in  him,  as  Miss  Vander- 
hurst  fancied,  but  she  was  right,  at  least,  in  thinking 
him  gentlemanly. 

She  studied  him  for  a  moment  with  her  sober  eyes.  It 
was  evident  first  impressions  had  been  disturbed  by 
reading  his  book.  One  hand  still  lay  on  the  volume  in 
question.  The  contact  seemed  to  plead  for  the  soberer 
man  under  the  one  who  uttered  persistent  flippancies. 
At  all  events,  her  face  retained  its  new,  more  tolerant 
expression. 

His  glance  fell  on  her  hand,  the  shapely  whiteness  of 
which  had  attracted  him  on  the  night  of  the  dinner. 
Where  had  he  recently  seen  the  same  type  ?  Then  he 
remembered  it  was  at  Madame  de  Kansa's.  While 
waiting  in  her  ante-room,  he  had  picked  up  among  the 
curiosities  on  the  table,  a  plaster  cast  of  the  hand  of  the 
Marquise  de  Brinvilliers,  the  seventeenth-century 
poisoner.  How  similar  the  two  hands  were.  But  he 
was  sceptical  of  chiromancy,  and  it  made  no  particular 
impression  on  him.  He  merely  thought  of  the  freaks 
that  Nature  plays. 

"  But  if  you  have  such  discouraged  views  of  writing, 
why  make  it  your  profession  ?  "  Miss  Eversley  observed. 


124  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

"  Yes,  I  admit,  it  sounds  disgruntled,"  he  said,  with 
a  shrug;  "  the  kind  of  thing  the  fox  says  of  the  grapes 
that  hang  too  high.  It's  confessing  oneself  a  failure  in 
art,  isn't  it  ?  But  I  can't  say  I'm  a  '  failure  '  in  it  yet, 
since  I  haven't  given  failure  a  chance.  I've  just  sent 
my  first  novel  to  an  American  publisher,  and  as  I  fore- 
cast what  will  happen,  I  can't  take  an  optimistic  tone 
about  literature.  My  excuse  for  going  into  it,  is  that  it 
was  necessity,  not  choice.  I  tried  a  number  of  honest 
livelihoods  with  ignominious  results.  All  the  builders 
rejected  me  as  a  worthless  stone,  so  there  was  nothing 
to  do,  it  seemed,  but  dip  pen  in  ink-bottle,  see  if  what 
apparently  was  my  only  talent  might  gather  some 
interest.  It  was  better  than  wrapping  it  up  in  a 
napkin,  no  doubt." 

She  made  no  comment  and  he  went  on: 
"  You  see,  life  doesn't  give  people  much  choice  in 
the  matter  of  what  they  do.  They  do  what  they  can. 
Often  what  they  can't.  And,  after  all,  as  to  literature, 
it  isn't  a  holy  place  any  more.  One  needn't  take  off 
shoes  there — one's  constant  struggle  is  to  keep  one's 
coat  on.  It  isn't  as  though  one  waited  for  a  voice  out 
of  heaven  saying  '  Write.'  We  aren't  Saint  Johns:  we 
don't  pretend  to  be  inspired.  My  warrant  is  that  if  I 
hadn't  gone  into  it  I'd  probably  have  starved.  It's  the 
shabby-genteel  resort  of  desperation.  Really,  it's 
absurd  to  take  book-writing  seriously,  you  know,  Miss 
Eversley,  when  its  mostly  to  furnish  amusement  for 
brokers  on  their  way  home  in  the  train,  for  housewives 
with  a  moment  to  spare  when  the  roast's  browning. 


THE  QUEST  125 

Anybody  is  justified  in  taking  it  up,  if  only  he's  clever 
enough  to  compound  the  sort  of  thing  wanted,  so  that 
it  pays."  And  his  eyes,  though  morose,  challenged 
her  humorously. 

"  I  don't  believe  that's  quite  the  spirit  in  which  you 
write,  Mr.  Harding,"  she  said.  "  At  least,  the  reason 
why  you  wrote  what's  here."  And  her  hand  again 
rested  on  the  Adonis-Garden  as  though  she  were 
soothing  its  injured  feelings.  Her  voice  was  kind, 
perhaps  too  kind,  since  it  almost  suggested  pity  for  one 
who  took  himself  so  lightly. 

He  might  have  resented  her  tone  in  another  mood. 
But  he  was  glad  of  an  ear  lent  to  his  destructive  self- 
analysis,  his  discontent  with  himself,  and  his  inaptitude 
for  getting  the  better  of  life  as  others  did.  He  was 
sincere,  for  the  moment,  in  regretting  his  lack  of  what 
he  considered  the  necessary  "bunco"  that  makes 
existence  the  successful  and  comfortable  thing  it 
can  be. 

"  Well,  perhaps  not,"  he  conceded  with  a  laugh,  that 
was  as  bad  a  failure  as  he  sometimes  thought  himself. 
"  And  that's  why  the  book  I've  just  sent  across  the 
water  will,  no  doubt,  come  back  to  me  again  like  the 
traditional  bread.  Though,  to  be  honest,  it's  written 
in  a  would-be  money-making,  '  popular  '  vein.  Only 
I  did  please  myself  trying  to  give  it  style.  After  all, 
the  public  sometimes  does  forgive  a  book  being  well- 
written." 

With  the  sunlight  of  early  summer  filtering  through 
the  leaves,  the  spot  was  suggestive  of  a  decidedly  diffe- 


126  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

rent  order  of  talk.  Miss  Eversley  had  nothing  of  the 
coquette,  it  was  true,  but  few  women  are  entirely  un- 
conscious of  their  youthful  good  looks,  and  she  was 
assuredly  good-looking  in  a  stately,  dark-browed  way. 
And  he  was  not  sure  that,  in  spite  of  her  air  of  indiffer- 
ence towards  the  other  sex,  she  did  not  resent,  a  little, 
his  lack  of  gallantry.  It  may  be  flattering  to  be  taken 
as  a  girl  of  superior  brains,  but  even  Hypatia  exacted 
some  tribute  to  her  human  loveliness. 

"  I  don't  wonder  you  think  me  egotistical,"  he  said. 
"  But  really,  I  wasn't  posing.  I  have  an  abominable 
philosophy  about  myself.  I  wish  I  hadn't.  If  I  could 
borrow  some  of  your  wisdom  I'd  count  myself  fortun- 
ate." 

"  But  what  do  you  know  of  my  wisdom  ?  When 
have  I  expressed  any  ?  " 

"  I  haven't  given  you  much  chance,  have  I  ?  It's 
rather  in  the  unconscious  impression,  of  being  a 
person  who  knows  how  to  fill  '  a  place  in  the  world  ' 
which  you  have,  and  that  I've  never  found  for  myself. 
That's  the  difference  between  us.  You  have  and  I 
haven't.  And,  that  being  the  case,  I  don't  wonder 
you  feel  towards  me  as  you  do." 

She  looked  at  him  as  though  rather  astonished  at 
his  assumption  that  she  felt  anything  about  him.  He 
saw  that  he  wasn't  making  matters  better  by  this  bold 
attack  on  her  reserve.  Yet  he  persisted. 

"  I've  given  you  some  cause,  I  know,  Miss  Eversley, 
for  disliking  me,  I  saw  that  you  did,  from  the  moment 
we  met." 


THE  QUEST  127 

"  But  why  should  I  like  or  dislike  you?  I  hardly 
know  you." 

"  Yes;  but  one  forms  impressions,  and  yours  hasn't 
been  exactly  flattering." 

"  Suppose  it  hasn't?  " 

"  Still  one  relies  a  good  deal  in  life  on  the  sympathy 
and  understanding  of  others.  Few  are  independent  of 
help." 

She  mused  a  moment  over  the  argument,  yet  without 
enthusiasm.  "  I  don't  know,"  she  returned.  "People 
don't,  half  the  time,  want  to  be  helped.  They  only 
think  they  do.  Besides,  the  cure  for  most  personal 
things  doesn't  lie  with  others." 

"  You  say  that,  perhaps,  because  you're  exceptional." 
He  deliberately  flattered  her.  "  It  was  what  struck  me, 
the  first  time  I  saw  you,  that  you  were  the  sort  of 
person  who  didn't  need  others.  It's  what  makes  your 
friendship  worth  having.  You  know  what  poor,  old, 
neglected  Emerson  says  of  the  value  that  lies  in  the 
friendship  of  one  who  can  do  without  friends.  That's 
why  I  should  like — should  so  much  prize — yours." 

But  Miss  Eversley  seemed  rather  wary.  She  re- 
garded him  as  if  the  question  were  one  entirely  of  kind- 
ness towards  him.  The  dubious  look  in  her  calm  eyes, 
that  suggested  an  unlighted  stage  where  dramas 
might  be  enacted,  was  not  flattering  to  the  place 
Harding  held  in  her  thoughts. 

"Isn't  that  just  a  mood?"  she  said.  "I  don't 
believe  you  really  want  my  friendship.  I  am  not  even 
sure  that  friendship  means  as  much  to  you  as  you  say." 


128  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

"  It  means  a  great  deal  to  me:  at  least,  yours  would. 
I've  had  the  feeling  all  along  that  you  were  going  to  be 
an  influence  in  my  life."  He  had  the  sincerity  of  the 
moment,  and  it  infused  into  his  voice  a  taking  quality. 
Under  his  assurances  there  was,  perhaps,  the  crude 
desire  to  vanquish  her  antipathy,  but  he  was  hardly 
conscious  of  it. 

Miss  Eversley  did  not,  however,  yield  to  his  appeal. 
"  But  I  don't  at  all  care  about  influencing,"  she  re- 
turned; and  in  saying  it  she,  too,  had  the  sincerity  of 
the  moment. 

"  But  what  woman  does  not  want  to  exercise  her 
influence?"  Harding  asked  audaciously.  "I  never 
met  one  who  didn't." 

"  You  think  that  is  what  they  were  invented  for,  no 
doubt?  "  she  parried. 

"  That  reason  of  itself  would  be  good  enough,"  he 
replied,  enjoying  the  debate.  "  We  can't  do  without 
human  contact,  you  know." 

"  I  can  do  without  it."  And  the  proud  way  she 
raised  her  head  almost  persuaded  him  that  she  could. 
It  had,  at  all  events,  he  felt,  been  her  effort  so  to  live; 
and  he  wondered  what  unfortunate  experience — what 
disappointment  of  heart — had  fostered  the  unnatural 
attitude.  She  had  admitted  she  thought  him  morbid. 
Was  she  not  the  more  morbid  of  the  two  ?  Curiosity 
caused  him  to  say,  in  hope  of  drawing  her  out : 

"  Then  you  can  never  have  suffered." 

Her  momentary  hesitation  told  him  he  had  touched 


THE  QUEST  129 

on  some  sore  place  in  her.  "  Everybody  has  troubles," 
she  returned,  with  eyes  that  darkened  a  little.  "  No- 
body's life  is  free  from  them." 

"  True,  I  have  no  right  to  say  that,  since  I  know 
nothing  about  your  life  .  .  .  though  I'd  like  to,"  he 
said. 

But  she  only  stiffened  at  the  liberty.  "  I  am  not  of 
those  who  get  pleasure  out  of  talking  about  their  lives." 

"  You  make  me  rather  ashamed  of  having  been  so 
unreserved,"  he  returned. 

"  Why  should  you  ?     It's  only  that  we're  different." 

"  You  are  very  independent,  Miss  Eversley.  Oughtn't 
you  to  share  with  others  the  secret  that  sustains  you  ?  " 

"  There  is  no  secret  to  share,  Mr.  Harding,"  she  said 
simply.  "  I  merely  try  to  accept  life  like  other  people. 
It  doesn't  help  matters,  does  it,  to  be  so  bitter  about  it 
as  you  appear  to  be  ?  " 

"  But  that's  because  I  have  no  faith  in  it — I  never 
could  see  where  its  reasonableness  came  in." 

"  Has  it  treated  you  so  badly,  then  ?  "  Her  eyes  inti- 
mated that  she  didn't  think  it  had,  though  her  voice 
was  gentler.  It  might  have  been  that  she  regretted 
her  brusqueness. 

"  No,  I  don't  suppose  it  has,  really,"  he  said.  "  Only 
it  has  somehow  knocked  all  belief  out  of  me.  I  don't 
think  I  had  much  to  start  with." 

"  Tell  me  a  little  about  your  life,  if  you  care  to,"  she 
said,  as  if  to  compensate  for  having  seemed  difficult. 
Or  perhaps  he  had  touched  her  womanly  side. 

K 


130  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

"  There's  not  much  to  tell,"  he  said  carelessly,  "  but 
it  will,  perhaps,  explain  why  I  came  to  Paris.  I  got 
tired  of  the  old  ruts."  He  hesitated,  feeling  half 
ashamed.  Yet  it  was  a  means  of  putting  himself  more 
in  touch  with  her,  and  his  mood  craved  understanding. 

He  sketched  his  last  ten  years  of  New  York  life, 
without  emphasizing  the  hardships;  he  only  offered 
such  facts  as  appeared  to  justify  his  futility,  his  feeling 
of  hopelessness. 

She  listened  with  more  interest  than  he  had  expected 
her  to  show.  "  I  hadn't  thought  of  things  being  quite 
so  difficult  for  you,"  she  said,  when  he  ended  with  an 
awkward  laugh,  that  was  meant  as  an  apology  for  his 
recital.  He  had  the  feeling  that  he  had  shown  himself 
an  awful  egotist. 

She  was  silent  a  moment.  "  Yet  I  don't  see  why  it 
has  robbed  you  of  all  faith  in  life,"  she  added,  with 
something  in  her  eyes  he  did  not  understand.  "  Can 
nothing  give  it  back,  Mr.  Harding?  " 

Her  face  had  lost  much  of  its  coldness,  and  he  said 
in  an  impulse,  moved  by  the  feeling  her  tone  inspired : 

"  Yes,  I  think  you  could,  if  you  wanted  to." 

"  I?  "  And  a  slight  colour  came  into  her  cheeks, 
that  seemed  surprise  rather  than  pleasure.  It  faded  as 
quickly  as  it  came,  and  she  said,  as  if  to  discourage 
idle  gallantry:  "  How  can  I  give  you  back  something 
that  lies  with  yourself?  "  And,  unconsciously,  her 
tone  betrayed  a  touch  of  bitterness,  as  though  her 
self  poise  had  been  born  of  that  acquired  knowledge. 


THE  QUEST  131 

"  You  can,  Miss  Eversley."  He  hardly  knew  whether 
or  not  he  was  sincere ;  but  he  had  an  odd  desire  to  call 
out  the  woman  in  her,  to  see  in  her  half-rebellious  eyes 
a  different  look — the  warmer  light  that  belonged  to 
them.  It  was  all  that  was  needed  to  make  her  really 
beautiful,  he  told  himself. 

"  After  all,  a  woman's  friendship  can  do  a  great  deal 
for  a  man,"  he  went  on.  "  The  worst  thing  about  life  is 
its  isolation,  the  dullness  that  comes  from  seeing  noth- 
ing beyond  drudgery.  The  fact  of  bread  being  nothing 
but  bread.  You  know  the  miracle  of  St.  Elizabeth. 
That  is  what  some  women  can  do  for  one — change  the 
bread  into  roses,  so  to  speak." 

She  smiled  faintly.  "Or  primroses?  It's  only 
another  way  of  saying  what  you  did  the  night  you 
dined  with  my  mother  " — (he  wondered  why  she  did 
not  say  "  with  us  "  ?) — isn't  it  ?  Don't  you  make 
rather  too  much  of  a  point  of  the  flower  side  of  life  ?  " 

"  But  roses — or  primroses,  if  you  prefer — symbolize 
with  me  the  feeling  of  beauty  that  goes  with  living. 
Can  you  get  on  without  it  ?  I  know  I  can't.  I  think  it's 
losing  sight  of  it  that's  the  matter  with  me.  And  one 
doesn't  find  it  in  abstract  things  best,  but  through 
what  friendship  gives.  That's  why  I  ask  yours.  You 
must  admit  we  '  can't  live  by  bread  alone.'  ' 

"  Nor  by  people  to  the  extent  you  say.  You  pay 
others  too  great  a  compliment.  It  would  be  better 
if  you  paid  it  to  yourself." 

He  took  it  as  a  rejection  of  his  overtures. 

K2 


132  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

"  So,"  he  said,  with  a  flush  of  sensitive  egotism, 
"  it's  true,  you  do  dislike  me,  Miss  Eversley." 

"  But  why  should  you  suppose  that  ?  I  do  not  dis- 
like you.  Yet,  in  spite  of  the  difference  in  our  way  of 
feeling  about  things  .  .  ." — she  hesitated.  "There  is  no 
reason,  Mr.  Harding,  why  we  shouldn't  be  friends, 
since  you  appear  to  want  it  so  much.  But  what  you 
most  need,  is  to  believe  in  yourself." 

She  rose,  as  she  spoke,  and  he  accompanied  her, 
more  affected  by  the  concession  than  he  would  have 
thought  possible. 


133 


CHAPTER  IX 

PARIS  was  precipitated  in  the  stuffiness  of  midsummer, 
when  one  day,  Harding  received  a  letter  which  he  saw, 
from  the  superscription  on  the  envelope,  was  from 
the  publishing  firm  to  which  he  had  sent  his  manuscript. 
Bracing  himself  for  bad  news,  he  broke  it  open  and 
as  he  drew  forth  the  contents  he  saw  a  folded  cheque 
within.  It  covered  the  sum  he  had  demanded.  The 
Horns  of  the  Altar  was  accepted.  After  the  strain  of 
waiting,  relief  almost  unnerved  him;  for  a  moment 
he  could  hardly  read  the  typed  communication,  con- 
firming the  fact. 

Bentley  and  Company  was  a  new  and  pushing  New 
York  house  that  had  acquired  a  reputation  for  launch- 
ing popular  novels,  and  for  having  more  "  best-sellers  " 
on  its  list  than  any  of  its  numerous  rivals.  The  junior 
member  of  the  firm,  to  whose  ingenious  advertising 
schemes  it  owed  much  of  its  success  in  floating  books 
on  brisk,  modern  lines,  was  slightly  acquainted  with 
Harding,  and  it  was  he  who  had  dictated  the  letter; 
telling  him  that  his  story  was  just  what  the  house  was 
looking  for.  The  American  public,  reacting  from  a 
long  diet  of  historical  romances,  was  in  the  humour 
for  homely,  human  tales  of  local  life,  and  he  antici- 
pated for  The  Horns  of  the  Altar — which  would  be 


134  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

brought  out  early  in  the  autumn — one  of  the  successes 
of  the  year. 

This  was  far  more  than  Harding  had  dreamed  in 
his  most  sanguine  moods,  and  the  prospect  of  entering 
on  a  literary  life,  freed  from  harassing  need,  had  the 
effect  of  creating  for  him  a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth. 
Something  in  him,  that  for  years  had  lain  drugged  by 
the  opiates  of  discouragement,  awoke  to  active  being; 
and  on  his  way  to  the  banker's,  to  cash  the  cheque 
which  came  opportunely  to  reimburse  his  empty 
pocket,  he  meditated  over  a  new  book  which,  he  vowed, 
would  be  better  than  the  first.  He  would  begin  it 
immediately,  and  as  change  and  tonic  for  work,  would 
find  some  place  outside  of  Paris  in  which  to  settle  for 
the  rest  of  the  summer.  He  knew  of  a  small  hotel  on 
the  Marne,  near  a  popular  boating  resort,  and  he 
decided,  as  he  was  fond  of  rowing,  to  select  this  as  best 
suited  to  his  purpose. 

He  had  stopped  in  at  Nicolls's  office,  to  tell  him 
the  news  and  invite  him  to  lunch,  but  finding  him  out, 
he  had  a  solitary  meal  at  a  restaurant;  after  which 
he  roamed  about  the  neighbourhood  of  the  Place  de 
1'Opera,  left  to  the  midsummer  tourist,  debating  how 
to  put  in  his  time.  As  he  turned  down  the  Boulevard 
Haussmann  he  chanced  on  Percy  Colston,  who  was 
coming  out  of  a  haberdasher's.  Harding  was  in  the 
frame  of  mind  to  welcome  any  acquaintance  with 
pleasure,  and  his  greeting  of  the  poet  was  more  friendly 
than  it  would  have  been  in  a  less  cheerful  moment. 
He  had  not  seen  the  privileged  youth  since  the  trip 


THE  QUEST  135 

with  the  Baxters,  and  as  Miss  Buttercup  had  ceased 
to  figure  importantly  in  his  thoughts,  he  found  it 
easy  to  forgive  him  for  having,  apparently,  eclipsed 
him  with  that  buoyant  young  woman.  Colston  told 
him  he  was  staying  with  friends  out  at  St.  Germain- 
en-Laye,  and  as  he  had  a  half-hour  to  spare  before 
his  train,  Harding  suggested  that  they  should  have 
a  cooling  drink  at  Sylvain's,  near  by. 

Colston  told  him  that  after  he  had  parted  from  the 
Baxters,  these  had  gone  to  Marienbad,  so  Miss  Zenobia 
could  take  a  flesh-reducing  course;  then  they  would 
travel  for  several  months  and  finally  return  to  Paris. 

"  But  Miss  Baxter  told  me  she  intended  passing  next 
winter  in  Berlin,"  Harding  commented. 

"  Yes;  but  that  was  before  I  advised  her  not  to," 
the  poet  returned  airily.  "  She  is  leaving  details  to 
me  now,  you  see.  I  am  always  saving  people,  and  I've 
decided  to  save  Buttercup.  Crudeness  is  her  note,  if 
she  learns  to  strike  it  effectively.  I  told  her  to  come 
back  to  Paris  and  I'd  make  her  a  success.  Her  success 
lies  in  her  voice.  It  has  the  real  American  timbre.  I'm 
getting  a  friend  to  put  Whitman's  Leaves  of  Grass 
to  music  so  Buttercup  can  sing  them.  She'll  be  the 
rage  here  chaunting  the  Saga  of  the  States.  As  I  told 
her,  her  capital  lay  in  her  defects,  if  she  only  culti- 
vated them." 

His  condescending  adoption  of  Buttercup  made  the 
other  smile.  It  was  evident  that  Colston  had  taken  up 
the  Baxters;  and  Harding  wondered  how  Mrs.  Eversley 
would  accept  the  situation.  He  asked  whether  there 


136  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

was  any  news  from  that  rejuvenated  lady  since  she 
had  gone  to  Trouville. 

"I'm  always  hearing  from  her,"  her  fickle  arbiter 
replied,  sipping  his  cassis.  It's  nulle  diem  sine  linea 
with  her.  She  writes  notes  with  the  frightful  fluency 
of  people  having  nothing  to  say.  She  tells  me  that 
Trouville  promises  to  have  a  dull  season  this  year,  so 
I  don't  know  that  I'll  pay  her  my  usual  August  visit. 
Besides,  I  am  getting  tired  of  asking  people  to  accept 
her  for  my  sake.  Then,  that  walking  Moral  Tale,  her 
daughter,  is  with  her.  Her  Maria  Edgeworth  heroine 
airs  always  did  get  on  my  nerves;  and,  you  know,  I 
don't  speak  to  her  now,  on  account  of  her  trying  to 
inveigle  Fernet  into  marrying  her." 

Harding  recalled  the  fragment  of  conversation  he 
had  heard  in  Mrs.  Eversley's  drawing-room. 

"  She  didn't  strike  me  as  that  sort  of  girl,"  he 
observed. 

"  No,  it  didn't  strike  Fernet,  either,"  the  poet 
snapped.  "  That  is  where  she's  so  clever.  She  makes 
advances  by  appearing  to  retreat.  She'd  probably  have 
succeeded  in  taking  Fernet  in,  if  I  hadn't  interfered, 
and  shown  him  that  she'd  kill  anybody's  career. 
Fernet  and  I  had  a  quarrel  about  her  in  which  he 
treated  me  brutally.  But  I've  forgiven  him — though, 
as  I  told  him,  I  never  could  feel  the  same  again.  He 
doesn't  appreciate  all  I've  done  for  him.  If  I  hadn't 
posed  for  his  '  Youth '  he'd  never  have  got  anywhere. 
Fortunately,  he's  gone  to  his  family  in  Brittany; 
so  he's  safe  from  her  at  present,  anyway." 


THE  QUEST  137 

He  asked  where  Harding  purposed  spending  the 
rest  of  the  summer,  and  on  the  latter  giving  him  the 
address,  he  said  that  he  might  be  visiting  at  Cham- 
pigny,  in  which  case,  as  it  was  near  by,  he  would  come 
over.  After  which  they  parted. 

The  summer  went  by  rather  quickly  for  Harding. 
The  proofs  of  his  book  arrived  in  August,  and  he  was 
kept  busy  correcting  them  in  the  mornings.  The  after- 
noons he  spent  on  the  river.  He  saw  no  acquaint- 
ances, for  Nicolls  was  on  a  vacation  in  England,  and 
his  other  friends  were  either  in  the  country  or  by  the 
sea.  One  day,  however,  Percy  Colston  fulfilled  that 
promise  of  coming  over  from  Champigny  to  see  him. 

Harding  rowed  him  to  Joinville-le-Pont,  where  they 
dined  at  the  willow-embowered  T£te  Noire.  The  talk 
was  mostly  on  art  problems  which,  as  the  other 
already  discovered,  his  guest  was  fond  of  discussing  in 
an  authoritative  way.  It  was,  indeed,  their  most 
congenial  meeting-ground,  and  Harding' s  willingness 
to  listen  to  his  dissertations  evidently  won  favour, 
for  the  visit  was  repeated  several  times  during  the 
month. 

Although  Harding  did  not  take  altogether  seriously 
the  poet's  opinions  on  art,  yet  they  had  some  influence 
on  him.  He  had  written  The  Horns  of  the  Altar  in  a 
detached  spirit,  more  concerned  with  its  style  than  with 
the  theme,  which,  as  he  told  Miss  Eversley,  had  been 
deliberately  selected  in  hope  of  its  being  popular. 
It  was  a  tour  de  force  into  which,  he  believed,  little 
of  his  real  self  had  entered;  and  Colston's  contention 


138  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

that  the  highest  form  of  art  consisted  in  self-assertion, 
appealed  to  him.  He  recognised,  however,  that  he  had 
a  morbid  streak,  and  lacked  a  balanced  criticism  of 
life,  and  that  these  were  obstacles  to  writing  in  a 
popular  yet  personal  fashion.  The  poet  derided  the 
argument  as  Philistinism.  An  artist,  he  held,  should 
write  for  artists,  not  for  the  crowd.  The  touch  of 
neurasthenia  to  which  Harding  confessed,  he  lauded 
as  a  gift  the  gods  bestow  only  on  the  elect. 

"  If  you  have  nerves,"  he  asserted,  as  he  sat  at  the 
bow  of  the  boat — he  was  not  fond  of  rowing — "  write 
with  your  nerves.  Nothing  counts  but  temperament. 
It's  what  American  writers  lack.  They  manufacture 
books  by  rote,  according  to  a  recipe,  with  an  eye  on 
the  Ten  Commandments  and  the  fear  of  the  God  of 
Mammon  in  their  hearts.  There's  no  personal  feeling 
and  thinking  with  them.  America  tramples  out 
individuality  in  art  as  in  society.  There's  only  one 
motive  for  a  book,  and  that's  oneself."  And  he  rang 
the  changes  on  his  idea  with  a  persuasive  self-confi- 
dence which  his  auditor  rather  envied  him. 

His  visitor's  contemptuous  dismissal  of  The  Horns 
of  the  Altar  as  a  work  of  no  artistic  significance — an 
opinion  based  on  deductions  since  he  had  not  seen  the 
proofs — had  its  effect  on  Harding's  susceptible  nature; 
and  he  ended  by  being  half  ashamed  of  it,  and  in 
doubt  as  to  his  best  line  of  future  work. 

Percy  Colston  came  over  one  day  in  a  state  of  great 
exasperation.  He  had  been  down  to  Trouville  after 
all,  and  had  found  there  Fernet  who  had  pretended 
to  be  with  his  family. 


THE  QUEST  139 

"  Mrs.  Eversley  is  nothing  but  a  detestable  intriguer," 
he  said.  "  I  taxed  her  with  treachery.  She  denies 
having  invited  Fernet,  but  he  never  would  have  gone 
on  his  own  initiative.  Fernet 's  like  a  lump  of  his  own 
clay,  anybody  can  mould  him.  Monica  pretends  to  be 
indifferent  to  him,  but  it's  only  her  way  of  trying  to 
attract;  she  tried  it  with  Nicolls,  and  didn't  learn  her 
lesson,  either,  when  it  failed  to  work." 

"  You  mean  to  say  Nicolls  was  in  love  with  her?  " 
Harding  asked. 

"  He  may  have  been  in  love  with  her,  but  love 
didn't  take  him  as  far  as  the  horns  of  the  altar," 
Percy  returned.  "  Ever  since  I  found  her  out,  Mrs. 
Eversley's  been  trying  to  propitiate  me.  I  live  in 
terror  of  bells  like  a  Matthias.  Messenger  boys  with 
telegrams  are  ringing  all  the  time  at  the  house  where  I 
am"  staying — that's  why  I  come  over  to  see  you,  to  get 
away  from  them,"  he  added  flatteringly. 

"  Perhaps  Mrs.  Eversley  isn't  as  anxious  to  marry 
her  daughter  to  Fernet  as  she  is  to  marry  herself  to 
you.  After  all,  she's  still  on  the  sunny  side  of  sixty." 

"  She'd  make  me  sixty  if  I  did,"  was  the  answer. 
"I'm  sure  her  husband  died  of  premature  octo- 
genarianism !  " 

On  another  occasion,  something  brought  up  the 
question  of  transmitted  tendency  which  Madame  de 
Kansa  and  the  Milanese  lecturer  had  discussed  at 
Mrs.  Eversley's  dinner.  The  conversation  had  lingered 
in  Harding' s  mind  largely  because  of  its  effect  on 
Monica.  His  talk  with  her  afterwards  in  the  salon  had 
supplied  some  clue  to  her  air  of  opposition  to  the 


140  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

ideas  expressed;  yet  it  did  not  account  for  the  smile 
of  malice  with  which  Percy  Colston  had  regarded 
her.  Harding  cited  her  views  as  being  in  favour  of  the 
self-assertiveness  which  Colston  extolled.  The  poet 
heard  him  with  scornful  impatience. 

"  Oh,  with  her  it's  all  argue,  argue,  and  dodge  facts 
at  the  same  time  while  pretending  to  understand," 
he  said.  "  It's  a  fond  delusion — with  that  type  of 
tiresome  persons.  But  there's  more  in  this  than  Monica 
Eversley  cares  to  dream  about  in  her  self-contented 
philosophy.  Her  attitude  irritates  me  so,  that  if  I 
wrote  novels,  I'd  make  one  out  of  this  business." 
And  he  sketched  a  striking  plot  dealing  with  criminal 
ancestry. 

Harding's  objection  was,  that  it  involved  a  scientific 
thesis:  and  as  for  himself,  he  had  no  convictions  on 
the  subject  of  heredity,  and  was  not  sure  that  he  liked 
books  with  a  purpose,  anyway. 

Colston  may  not  have  liked  books  with  a  purpose 
either;  but  here  he  appeared  to  have  a  purpose  for 
the  book. 

"  Don't  think  of  science — think  of  the  tragedy  in 
the  theme,"  he  said.  "  It  holds  almost  Sophoclean 
possibilities.  Heredity  appears  here  as  another 
name  for  the  Three  Fates,  holding  in  their  lean  hands 
the  thread  of  destiny.  As  I'm  always  contending,  it's 
not  so  much  what  one  writes  as  the  way  one  writes  it. 
Art  can  make  even  science  dramatic.  The  trouble  is, 
that  most  writers  who  select  such  subjects  write  with 
the  point  of  a  scalpel;  they  fail  because  they  are  usually 
not  artists,  but  scientists,  at  soul." 


THE  QUEST  141 

And  the  poet  garnished  his  idea  with  a  number  of 
details  that  brought  it  graphically  before  Harding's 
eyes.  They  discussed  the  suggestion  for  the  rest  of 
dinner,  and  when  they  parted,  Harding  rowed  back 
from  Joinville  under  the  star-lit  sky,  filled  with 
enthusiasm  for  the  theme.  It  was  one,  indeed,  which 
tempted  him  in  spite  of  the  objections  he  had  raised — 
perhaps  because  of  them.  Much  that  was  half  conviction, 
his  pessimistic  attitude  towards  life — a  blind  maze 
in  which  the  individual  groped,  the  victim  of  accident, 
burdened  by  unescapable  fate — could  enter  into  such 
a  story.  He  recalled  the  effect  upon  him  of  the  perform- 
ance of  (Edipe  Roi,  which  he  had  seen  at  the 
Comedie  Francaise,  how  its  art  had  invested  horror 
with  a  vitality  transcending  the  trivialities  of  modern 
literature.  If  he  could  but  get  a  touch  of  such  grandeur 
into  his  story!  He  smiled  at  the  ambition.  Yet  one 
should  aim  high  whether  or  not  one  shot  low.  It 
would  be  a  pleasure  to  try  .  .  .  and  he  had  taken  no 
pleasure  in  his  other  book.  How  could  art  mean  any- 
thing to  others  unless  it  meant  something  to  the  artist 
who  had  begot  it  ? 

His  enthusiasm  remained  with  him,  and  by  the  end 
of  the  week  he  had  made  a  rough  draft  of  the  plot. 
He  laid  the  scenes  partly  in  America,  partly  in  Paris, 
following  the  idea  as  he  had  discussed  it  with  Percy 
Colston,  who  had  disclaimed  any  intention  to  utilize 
the  material.  There  was  no  reason  why  he  himself 
should  not  take  it. 


142 


CHAPTER  X 

HARDING  called  on  Mrs.  Eversley  immediately  after 
her  return  from  Trouville,  and  she  asked  him  to  take 
her  to  the  Opera  Comique  for  the  premiere  of  Le  Gage 
d' Amour,  an  opera  by  Chelard  whom  he  had  met  at 
her  dinner.  Driving  in  from  Neuilly,  she  was  in  a 
confidential  mood,  and  spoke  almost  sentimentally 
of  his  sympathy  and  power  of  understanding,  due  to 
his  inborn  talent  as  a  writer,  which  she  had  felt  even 
before  knowing  all  he  had  done.  Of  Monica,  too,  she 
spoke,  and  indeed,  of  most  of  her  recent  troubles, 
touching  on  them  lightly. 

"  Monica  is  far  weaker  than  you  think,  Mr.  Harding; 
she  is  very  much  of  a  woman,  she  was  made  to  be  loved, 
to  be  cared  for.  But  she  has  such  beautiful  ideals 
about  love,  and  it's  her  disappointment  in  the  men 
she  meets  that  causes  her  to  fall  back  on  her  art, 
her  charities .  . .  that  can  never  fill  a  girl's  life.  She 
must  abide  by  her  standards.  It  was  really  to  escape 
M.  Fernet's  attentions  that  she  went  to  England.  You 
remember,  I  told  you  last  June  how  hopeless  that  was, 
and  how  sorry  I  was  for  him.  So  when  he  asked  me  to 
come  down  to  Trouville,  I  hadn't  the  heart  to  say  no. 
Perhaps  it  was  unwise — I'm  so  impulsive !  I  couldn't 
have  thought  Mr.  Colston  could  so  misjudge  me !  He's 
so  clever  and  accomplished,  but  a  woman  could  never 


THE  QUEST  143 

repose  in  him  the  same  faith  as  in  you !  "  Whereupon 
she  reposed  very  near  his  shoulder  in  a  way  which 
certainly  promised  well  for  their  friendship.  But 
more  momentous  developments  yet  were  reserved  for 
the  evening. 

In  a  box  opposite  to  them,  Colston  sat  with  the 
Baroness  de  Chanzy,  looking  so  markedly  at  Mrs. 
Eversley  as  he  talked  that  he  was  evidently  discussing 
her;  and  Mrs.  Eversley  struck  Harding  as  a  woman 
acting  under  the  effects  of  fear  rather  than  love — he  re- 
membered that  Colston  had  once  boasted  of  "knowing 
her  story."  Mrs.  Eversley  finally  begged  Harding  to 
bring  the  poet  to  her  during  an  entr'acte,  and  was  so 
upset  by  the  interview  that  she  asked  to  be  taken 
home  before  the  end  of  the  performance.  Then,  in  the 
cab,  she  broke  into  a  hysterical  passion  of  tears  which, 
dark  as  it  was,  caused  such  ravages  in  her  youthful 
beauty  that  he  wondered  if  he  would  ever  be  pardoned 
the  revelation  after  she  had  looked  at  herself  in  a 
glass.  He  made  the  best  of  the  situation,  however,  by 
taking  her  hand,  and  comforting  her  as  best  he  might — 
he  thought  her  groping  for  his  hand,  though  it  may  have 
been  only  for  the  powder  box ;  and  then  he  made  swift 
farewells  at  the  door  so  as  neither  to  see  too  much — 
nor  to  keep  her  too  long  from  consulting  her  glass  and 
seeing  the  worst  for  herself. 

Next  time  he  called,  she  showed  no  resentment, 
but  accepted  him  on  a  footing  of  intimacy;  and  while 
her  impossible  blonde  head  had  a  droop  which  suggested 
that  it  required  a  more  substantial  prop  than  the  silk 


144  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

cushions  of  the  little  salon,  she  shed  no  more  tears — 
doubtless  her  mirror's  revelations  of  the  havoc  to  her 
would-be  youth  had  dried  them  up  permanently  at 
their  fountain-source.  Taking  her  hand,  Harding 
assured  her  of  his  friendship  and  sympathy  in  her 
trouble  with  the  poet  and  with  Fernet ;  and  they  agreed 
that  the  privileged  Percy  was  most  unkind  and 
tyrannical  with  others.  On  Harding  hinting  that 
perhaps  it  would  be  wise  of  her  to  try  to  forget  him, 
since,  apparently,  he  intended  to  forget  her,  Mrs. 
Eversley  mournfully  admitted  that  perhaps  it  was 
better;  and  so,  by  degrees,  "  Percy  "  had  dropped  out 
of  their  conversation  as  he  had  dropped  out  of  Mrs. 
Eversley's  life. 

What  had  passed  between  them  on  the  night  of  the 
Gage  d" Amour  premiere,  Harding  never  learned; 
yet  he  fancied  that,  in  spite  of  Mrs.  Eversley's  break- 
down in  the  carriage,  the  interview  had  somehow 
dissipated  the  fears  from  which  she  had  seemingly 
suffered.  He  concluded  these  fears  were  no  clearer 
than  any  other  points  connected  with  their  relations; 
unless  she  apprehended  that  the  poet  would  tell  the 
"  odious  "  Baroness  de  Chanzy  and  others  her  "  story," 
whatever  it  might  be.  As  to  her  tears,  they  were  half 
nerves,  half  tribute  to  a  disappointed  heart. 

Harding  had  encountered  Colston  only  once  since 
that  night,  when  he  would  have  passed  him  rather 
coldly  by,  had  not  the  other  greeted  him  amiably 
and  chatted  away  quite  as  though  no  reason  existed 
for  coolness.  And  indeed,  Harding  had  none,  beyond 


THE  QUEST  145 

chivalry  towards  Mrs.  Eversley.  Besides,  he  was  in 
debt  to  the  other  for  suggesting  material  for  his  new 
novel,  which  rather  obliged  him — (he  remembered  the 
next  moment) — to  pause  at  least  long  enough  to  say  that 
he  had  definitely  adopted  the  plot.  The  poet  smiled  rather 
strangely,  he  thought,  but  magnificently  brushed 
aside  Harding's  expressions  of  indebtedness,  to  speak 
of  his  own  affairs.  It  seemed  that  he  and  Fernet  had 
had  a  definite  break,  and  the  cause  lay  not  with  Monica 
Eversley — the  hope  of  gaining  whom  the  sculptor  had 
resigned,  according  to  her  mother — but  with  Buttercup 
Baxter.  Harding  had  seen  by  the  Paris  Herald  that 
she  and  her  aunt  were  again  at  the  Hotel  de  I'Athene'e. 
It  was  about  a  bust  of  the  young  woman,  Harding  was 
informed,  and  the  result  of  the  rupture  was  that 
Colston  had  left  his  friend's  apartment  in  the  rue  St. 
Honore. 

"  You  know  I  made  Fernet,  by  posing  for  his 
'  Youth/  he  continued,  "  and  I  once  thought  he  had 
a  future,  but  he's  sadly  fallen  off.  I  got  Buttercup 
to  sit  for  him,  for  I'm  always  thinking  of  others.  But 
when  the  bust  was  half  done,  I  saw  it  would  be  a  failure. 
So  I  took  her  to  Circour,  a  pupil  of  Rodin,  who  I  knew 
could  touch  off  her  American  crudeness  in  a  thoroughly 
effective  way.  Fernet  said  it  was  outrageous  of  me. 
I  told  him  it  wasn't  half  as  outrageous  as  his  bust  of 
Buttercup.  As  he  wouldn't  apologise  for  his  behaviour, 
I  moved  my  things  out  next  day.  I  refuse  to  be  treated 
unjustly." 

"  And  where  are  you  living  now?  " 

L 


146  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

"  Oh,  with  Circour,  naturally,"  was  the  answer.  "  I 
told  him,  as  he  caused  the  break,  he  owed  me  a  home. 
He's  pretty  hard  up.  But  he  has  talent,  and  I'm  already 
making  him  the  fashion." 

Harding  asked  whether  Buttercup  had  begun  sing- 
ing the  Saga  of  the  States.  But  it  appeared  that  Miss 
Zenobia  had  set  her  foot  down.  The  poet  had  read  her 
'  The  Song  of  Adam/  and  almost  shocked  her  into 
apoplexy. 

"  She  implied,"  continued  Buttercup's  saviour, 
"  that  there  was  too  much  grass  about  the  '  Leaves,' 
and  not  enough  fig.  I  was  quite  indignant  with  her. 
When  she  called  Whitman  '  indecent,'  I  told  her 
there  was  nothing  filthier  than  lucre,  and  if  she  could 
face  an  American  dollar,  she  needn't  faint  at  '  The 
Song  of  Adam.'  She's  really  the  most  impossible 
woman  I  ever  met." 

It  appeared,  however,  that  he  had  taken  up  the 
Baxters  all  the  same,  which  perhaps  explained  his 
neglect  of  Mrs.  Eversley.  Harding  saw  their  names 
frequently  in  the  paper  as  among  those  at  various 
fashionable  entertainments,  proving  that  Percy  Colston 
touted  for  Miss  Baxter  as  diligently  as  he  had  for  her 
predecessor  in  his  favour.  Harding  called  once  or  twice 
during  the  late  autumn,  but  on  finding  them  always 
out,  he  resigned  them  to  his  rival. 

His  increasing  intimacy  with  the  Eversley s  had, 
indeed,  something  to  do  with  the  slighting  of  Buttercup 
and  her  aunt  Work  on  his  book  demanded  most  of 


THE  QUEST  147 

his  hours,  and  what  leisure  he  had,  was  pretty  well 
taken  up  in  "  being  good  "  to  Mrs.  Eversley  at  first; 
and  in  time  he  would,  perhaps,  have  faltered  in  his 
benevolence,  had  not  his  visits  to  the  house  thrown  him 
with  her  daughter.  Monica  had  at  first  treated  him 
coolly,  having  apparently  repented  of  her  half-capitu- 
lation in  the  Bois;  and  Harding  felt  that  his  intimacy 
with  her  mother  counted  against  him.  It  was  part  of 
her  general  prejudice  that  took  time  to  overcome. 
But  he  overcame  it  in  great  measure,  as  the  weeks 
passed,  by  adapting  his  ideas  to  hers,  by  checking  his 
tendency  to  utter  flippant  cynicisms.  Pique  entered, 
in  a  way,  into  his  efforts  to  please  her :  her  indifference 
towards  him  both  attracted  and  challenged ;  and  when 
he  actually  gained  her  friendship,  he  felt  that  it  was 
a  triumph  over  her  natural  antipathy. 

Perhaps  it  would  have  been  more  difficult,  had  not 
his  novel  helped  to  win  her  favour.  Its  healthy, 
optimistic  tone  pleased  her,  as  had  his  poems  by  their 
lack  of  bitterness  and  morbid  self-analysis.  The  book 
had  been  going  well,  as  a  result  of  the  publishers' 
abundant  advertisement.  It  figured  as  one  of  "  the 
best  sellers,"  and  the  house  had  arranged  with  a 
playwright  for  its  dramatisation — it  was  the  moment 
when  popular  novels  got  on  the  boards — so  that 
Harding  could  look  forward  sanguinely  to  some 
thousands  of  royalty  at  the  beginning  of  the  year. 
This  had  all  inspired  him  for  work ;  and  he  had  another 
manuscript  ready  to  float  in  the  wake  of  his  first 

L2 


148  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

success.  The  Labyrinth  of  Life,  as  he  called  his  new 
story,  had  almost  seemed  to  write  itself;  and  he  had 
put  the  finishing  touches  to  it  the  previous  week.  He 
had  never  done  work  so  quickly  and  with  so  little 
agonising  over  the  style. 

He  had  given  Monica  Eversley  the  manuscript  to 
read  before  sending  it  to  the  publisher — this  showed 
where  he  had  got  in  his  relations  with  her.  He  knew 
she  had  grown  to  like  him  through  liking  The  Horns 
of  the  Altar.  After  reading  that  first  novel,  she  had 
told  him  he  misrepresented  himself  in  conversation, 
that  he  was  not  the  discouraged,  futile  person  he 
claimed  to  be.  He  deprecated  her  assumption  that 
the  optimistic  tone  of  the  story  was  his  real  self,  his 
pessimism  about  life  a  pose;  and,  indeed,  there  had 
been  many  moments  when,  exhilarated  by  success 
newly  come  to  him,  he  was  half  persuaded  it  had  been 
a  pose;  but  he  saw  that  Monica  Eversley  did  not 
believe  in  his  efforts  to  be  honest  with  her.  And  desire 
for  honesty  with  her  had  grown  in  him,  with  the  growth 
of  their  friendship,  until  he  resolved — and  he  felt  it  one 
of  the  crises  of  his  life — that  he  would  make  it  an  issue 
between  them:  she  should  accept  him  pessimist  as  he 
was,  or  not  accept  him  at  all.  He  knew  that  he 
had  a  fundamental  distrust  of  the  reasonableness 
and  equity  of  things — a  lack  of  faith  in  himself,  and  in 
his  world — and  he  could  not,  would  not  pretend  to 
any  other  opinion.  Yet  the  loss  of  Monica  Eversley's 
respect  and  liking  would  be  a  heavy  price  to  pay  for 


THE  QUEST  149 

this  honesty  with  himself  and  with  her.  It  was  all 
part  of  his  new  intolerance  towards  compromise. 
The  Labyrinth  of  Life  was  his  protest  against  hypocrisy 
in  literature,  as  his  placing  the  manuscript  in  Monica 
Eversley's  hands  to  read,  was  his  protest  in  friendship — 
or  rather  love,  for  he  knew  that  he  had  come  to 
love  her.  Yet  he  had  confidence  that  she  would 
accept  him  still,  even  thus  altered  in  her  eyes.  She 
was  sincere,  and  would  surely  respect  sincerity. 

It  was  this  reflection  which  sustained  him  as  he 
thought  of  the  story;  for  it  was  a  sheer  contradiction 
of  the  attitude  towards  life  he  had  taken  in  The  Horns 
of  the  Altar.  It  was  a  tale  of  two  lovers  held  apart 
by  a  criminal  shadow  on  the  part  of  the  woman's 
family.  Her  grandmother  had  committed  a  crime,  and 
she  had  vowed  herself  to  singleness  rather  than  marry 
and  transmit  to  her  offspring  the  stain — perhaps 
the  vicious  tendencies — of  ancestry.  But,  overcome 
in  the  end  by  her  lover's  pleading  and  by  the  prompting 
of  her  own  heart,  she  marries.  A  child  is  born  that 
demonstrates  the  force  of  hereditary  influence,  and  fate 
brings  tragic  punishment  to  those  who  have  broken 
the  tables  of  duty  on  the  Mount  Sinai  of  Science's 
law. 

He  had  effectively  employed  the  element  of  Greek 
fatality  in  the  story,  and  he  prided  himself  on  having 
written  it  without  thought  of  popularity.  In  so  much 
had  the  lofty  counsels  of  Percy  Colston  prevailed. 
He  hoped  that  Monica  would,  at  all  events,  commend 


150  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

the  art  of  the  book,  however  much  she  might  dis- 
approve of  the  argument;  and,  after  all,  she  had 
boasted  of  her  own  ability  to  face  unflinchingly  the  facts 
of  existence;  and  he  had  faced  them  himself,  artisti- 
cally, boldly,  allowing  all  that  belonged  to  the  situation 
in  the  story  to  claim  the  dues  of  ill  heritage  stalking 
down  the  blood  of  a  family,  generation  after  genera- 
tion. He  had  laboured  to  echo  the  choral  wail  of  old 
classic  drama,  remembering  the  despair  of  (Edipus, 
as  Mounet  Sully  had  made  it  vital  to  him,  the  violent 
solution  of  Jocasta  to  the  tangle  of  horror  in  which 
fate  had  involved  her. 


CHAPTER  XI 

SNOW  had  fallen  all  Christmas  day,  its  feathery  flakes 
dropping  through  the  air  like  notes  of  a  delicate 
melody.  But  towards  twilight  it  had  ceased;  and  now 
as  Harding  issued  from  his  room,  overhead  in  the  clear 
sky  hung  the  bright  moon. 

Paris  had  never  seemed  to  him  so  much  an  en- 
chanted city  as  thus  clothed  in  the  silvery  phantasy 
of  snow,  with  the  fabulous  light  of  the  moon  filtering 
through  the  deep  blue  air.  It  called  out  a  strange  sort 
of  passion  in  him,  the  sense  of  love  that  had  so  long 
lain  unused  in  his  heart.  Harding  had  begun  to  feel 
the  lack  of  a  big  stimulus  in  his  life,  and  it  no  longer 
seemed  enough  that  love  should  merely  brush  his 
manhood  in  an  abstract  way.  He  wanted  it  to  dominate 
him,  as  the  moon  dominated  the  snowy  night. 

As  he  walked  along  the  quay  he  played  with  new 
thoughts  of  Monica  Eversley,  the  only  woman  who 
had  come  into  his  life  with  the  appeal  of  a  definite 
personality.  His  sentimental  moments  with  Mrs. 
Eversley  had  meant  nothing,  though  he  had  been 
moved  to  take  her  small  white  hand  and  say  things 
to  her  he  did  not  feel.  Thinking  of  her  daughter, 
he  recalled  some  of  his  first  rather  pursuing  fancies 
about  her.  One  had  been  suggested  by  strolling 
through  the  Salon  where  he  had  come  on  one  of 


152  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

Maxence's  canvas,  representing  a  woman  clasped  in 
an  ermine  mantle,  pensively  straying  by  an  Alpine 
glacier,  in  her  hand  green  crystals  of  ice  that  were 
intended,  no  doubt,  to  symbolise  a  virginal  heart  and 
pure  dreams.  He  had  the  feeling  that  Monica  Eversley 
was  like  her,  cold,  unawakened  to  love,  to  the  earthly 
side  of  life.  He  had  been  tempted  to  awaken  her,  he 
had  succeeded  in  awakening  himself. 

Crossing  the  Pont  de  Solferino,  he  entered  the 
Tuileries  Gardens,  meaning  when  he  reached  the  rue 
de  Rivoli  to  take  a  cab.  He  wanted  to  walk  awhile 
and  breathe  deep  into  his  lungs  the  crisp,  tonic  night, 
The  snow-mantled  solitude  of  the  gardens  was  like 
consecrated  ground.  It  was  a  world  of  dreams,  a  place 
pure  with  spiritual  exaltation.  Fallen  snow  masked 
the  earth  and  heroic  marble  shapes  of  statuary; 
glittering  icicles  hung  from  the  trees;  it  was  all 
exquisite  as  a  landscape  of  sleep — some  white  version 
of  the  spell-bound  domains  of  Armida,  with  its  glacial 
flowers,  its  shrouded  trees,  bright  from  the  flooding 
moonbeams  on  the  frosted  sward.  What  had  been 
familiar  to  him  was  transformed,  wrought  to  symbols 
of  chastity  befitting  mystic  purlieus  where  dwelt  the 
Dian-soul  of  winter.  It  was  life  untouched  by  taint 
of  experience,  untrampled  by  care,  virgin-white  as  the 
untried. 

He  was  dining  at  Neuilly,  that  night;  only  one 
other  guest  was  invited,  Miss  Fitzgerald,  who  was 
stopping  at  the  house.  When  he  arrived,  Mrs.  Eversley 
thanked  him  for  the  roses  he  had  sent.  She  anyway  had 


THE  QUEST  153 

preserved  the  sentimentality  of  their  earlier  relations, 
if  Harding  had  forgotten  there  ever  had  been  senti- 
mentality between  them.  .  .  .  He  never  dignified  it  by 
sentiment.  She  was  full  of  her  old  smiling  assurance. 
Her  "  story  "  was  seemingly  still  safe,  and  she  went 
about  a  great  deal  again,  not,  it  was  true,  in  the  most 
elect  society,  nor  did  so  many  of  the  artistic  set  Percy 
Colston  had  gathered  about  her  come  now  to  the 
house;  Harding  heard  nothing  about  a  "  salon,"  nor 
were  there  any  "Wednesday  dinners";  yet  if  she 
suffered  from  this  half  eclipse  of  her  former  role  as  a 
patroness  of  art,  she  made  shift  to  conceal  her  bitter- 
ness. 

Harding  was  glad  to  meet  Elsie  Fitzgerald  again.  He 
had  not  seen  her  since  Mrs.  Eversley's  dinner  the  previous 
spring,  and  he  had  pleasant  recollections  of  her  bright 
talkativeness  at  the  garden  party.  She  told  him  that 
she  had  been  travelling  with  her  father,  and  that  his 
health  had  prevented  her  going  on  with  her  work  under 
Marchesi.  But  she  had  taken  it  up  again,  and  had, 
that  winter,  been  studying  opera  roles  and  hoped 
eventually  to  obtain  a  Paris  engagement.  Harding 
thought,  with  her  clear  Irish  face  and  auburn  hair, 
what  an  attractive  Isolde  she  would  make. 

After  some  moments,  Monica  entered  the  room. 
Her  stateliness  was  one  of  the  things  he  admired  in 
her.  She  was  only  of  medium  height,  but  her  carriage 
gave  the  effect  of  greater  stature.  There  was  nothing 
of  her  mother's  pretty  fragility  in  her  strong,  young 
figure,  that  has  just  enough  maturity  to  suit  the  serious 


154  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

Madonna-like  eyes.  He  could  fancy  her  a  Madonna  of 
the  modern  school,  holding  against  her  breast  a  child, 
sober-eyed  like  herself.  There  was  latent  suggestion 
of  a  beautiful  maternity  in  her,  Harding  thought, 
in  spite  of  her  cold  manner.  Her  greyish  eyes  had  the 
attraction  of  something  deep,  even  brooding,  but  they 
were  hard  to-night,  as  she  gave  him  her  hand.  Indeed, 
the  formality  of  her  greeting  surprised  him,  prepared 
as  he  was  for  some  possible  manifestations  of  dis- 
approval, born  of  reading  his  manuscript.  It  seemed  to 
thrust  him  brusquely  back  to  the  period  of  their 
initial  acquaintance.  He  had  allowed  for  something 
of  this,  yet  it  did  not  save  him  from  being  disap- 
pointed. 

It  robbed  him  of  the  spirits  with  which  he  had  come 
in  from  the  snowy  night,  preoccupied  him,  in  spite  of 
himself,  while  at  table,  although  he  made  an  effort 
to  meet  Miss  Fitzgerald's  gaieties,  display  the  proper 
amount  of  interest  in  Mrs.  Eversley's  affected  little 
speeches.  It  was  a  relief  when  dinner  was  over,  and 
they  passed  into  the  smoking-room.  After  a  little, 
Mrs.  Eversley  carried  off  Elsie  Fitzgerald  on  the  plea 
that  she  wanted  her  to  sing,  leaving  him  and  Monica 
alone.  It  was  what  he  had  hoped  might  happen.  He 
wanted  the  opportunity  to  know  how  he  stood  with 
Monica,  what  underlay  her  altered  manner. 

He  had  taken  his  stand  before  the  fireplace,  while 
he  stirred  his  coffee.  The  light  from  the  wood  fire 
on  the  hearth  cast  sharp  flickerings  on  the  objects  of 
the  room;  the  low  bookcases,  with  their  varied 


THE  QUEST  155 

surface  of  soberly  bound  volumes ;  the  pieces  of  Rouen 
china,  blue  and  white  Moustir  and  Rodi,  ranged  along 
the  edge  of  the  high  dado.  The  bright  shadows,  leaping 
here  and  there,  fell  on  one  of  Miss  Eversley's  hands,  as 
it  lay  on  her  lap,  staining  it  red  .  .  .  the  beautiful 
hand  he  had  always  admired.  He  recalled  again,  idly, 
how  he  had  found  a  resemblance  between  it  and  the 
cast  of  the  Marquise  de  Brinvillier's  in  Madame  de 
Kansa's  waiting-room.  He  could  fancy  the  latter's 
reddened  thus  .  .  .  the  small,  subtle  hand  so  ingenious 
in  dealing  death,  as  old  pages  of  criminal  history  related. 
On  second  thought,  he  rather  wished  he  had  never  seen 
the  plaster  model. 

She  sat  on  a  divan  under  a  portrait  of  her  mother 
painted  by  J.  Blanche.  It  was  a  study  in  whites,  and 
cleverly  suggested  the  original's  trivial,  self-satisfied 
airs  of  chic.  The  contrast  between  Mrs.  Eversley  in 
paint  and  her  daughter  in  person  below,  serious,  with 
something  half  antagonistic  in  her  attitude,  made  him 
freshly  sensible  of  the  difference  between  the  two.  It 
had  demanded,  he  thought,  a  good  deal  of  adapt- 
ability to  win  the  favour  of  both,  as  he  had  succeeded 
in  doing;  at  least,  for  a  while,  in  the  case  of  Miss 
Eversley.  But  he  could  see  he  was  not  in  favour  now. 
Her  effort  to  be  polite  at  table  had  passed  with  the 
disappearance  of  her  mother  and  Elsie  Fitzgerald. 
Displeasure — if  it  was  that — sat  rather  well  on  her, 
he  confessed.  She  was  handsomer  than  usual.  Her 
gown  of  green  Liberty  satin,  of  shifting  shades  and 
simply  made,  suited  her  dark  hair  and  harmonized 


156  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

with  her  eyes;  not  small  and  spiteful  as  such  eyes  often 
were,  but  with  a  suggestion  of  chill  in  the  depths; 
they  were  like  sea  water  under  northern  skies. 

She  left  it  to  him  to  begin  the  conversation.  Con- 
straint due  to  her  manner  made  him  silent  awhile, 
during  which  Miss  Fitzgerald's  voice,  wafted  from  the 
salon,  came  to  their  ears.  She  was  singing  Senta's 
ballad  from  the  Flying  Dutchman. 

"  How  well  Miss  Fitzgerald  sings,"  he  remarked 
finally. 

"  Yes;  her  voice  has  gained  a  great  deal  this  last 
year,  though  she  has  had  to  neglect  it,"  Miss  Eversley 
answered.  "  Elsie  is  glad  to  be  back  in  Paris,  and  quite 
triumphant  over  having  finally  got  her  family  to  see 
she  was  meant  to  be  a  singer.  It  is  a  pleasure  to  have  her 
here  again." 

"  I  should  think  it  would  be  ...  she  is  a  charming 
girl." 

They  were  silent  once  more,  and  then,  after  a  moment 
or  so,  Monica  rising,  went  to  her  escritoire  and  taking 
from  a  drawer  Harding's  manuscript,  handed  it  to  him, 
saying : 

"  Here  is  your  story,  Mr.  Harding.  I  have  finished 
it." 

He  took  it,  wounded  by  the  casual  way  in  which 
she  returned  it. 

"  I  see,"  he  said,  "  it  hasn't  pleased  you.  I'm  sorry, 
for  I  wanted  it  to,  and  I  value  your  judgment.  I  wish 
you'd  tell  me  frankly  how  it  strikes  you." 

"  I'd  much  rather  not  discuss  it." 


THE  QUEST  157 

"  Really,  I  don't  see  why,"  he  said,  perplexed, 
"  and  I  had  quite  counted  on  you." 

She  regarded  him  haughtily  for  an  instant,  as  though 
his  assurance  surprised  her.  He  had  the  odd  impression 
that  she  assumed  some  hidden  design  on  his  part  in 
giving  her  the  manuscript.  It  confused  him  a  little, 
he  did  not  know  why ;  for  he  had  no  reason  for  self- 
consciousness  about  it,  outside  of  the  feelings  he  bore 
her. 

"  You  can't  imagine  it  would  be  otherwise  than 
distasteful  to  me,"  she  returned.  "  Unless  .  .  ." 

She  checked  the  hasty  tone  in  which  she  had  begun. 
But  it  was  a  reluctant  half  concession. 

He  flushed  at  her  ungraciousness.  "  Of  course," 
he  said  stiffly,  "  I  shan't  insist.  But  I  confess  I  am  at 
a  loss  to  account  for  your  feeling  that  way.  You 
expressed  interest  in  the  story,  you  remember,  and 
seemed  willing  enough  to  read  it." 

"  You  didn't  tell  me  what  it  was  about." 

"  I  know  I  didn't,  I  thought  it  better  you  should 
get  your  impressions  from  the  plot  properly  clothed. 
Besides,  I  haven't  much  skill  at  describing  in  brief. 
Did  it  strike  you  as  so  disagreeable,  then  ?  " 

"  What,  did  you  think,  Mr.  Harding,  that  it  could  be 
agreeable  ?  " 

Her  eyes  were  bright  as  she  faced  him,  one  hand 
resting  on  the  back  of  a  chair.  Her  whole  attitude 
was  so  unexpected  and  inexplicable  that  he  hardly 
knew  what  to  say. 

"  I  thought,  at  all  events,  that  it  might  interest 


158  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

you,"  he  ventured.  "  That  seemed  the  main  thing. 
About  its  being  disagreeable  or  not  ...  I  don't  know 
I  put  it  that  way  to  myself.  It  isn't  a  question  one 
especially  considers,  unless  a  story  deals  with  things 
outside  the  pales  of  what  is  ordinarily  discussable 
between  people.  And  there  isn't  any  such  element  in 
mine.  At  least,  I  can't  see  it." 

Her  face  changed  a  little  under  his  hesitant  per- 
plexity ;  it  was  obvious  that  he  was  sincere. 

"  Really,"  he  went  on,  "  your  attitude  rather 
mystifies  me.  I  don't  mean  your  not  liking  the  story, 
but  your  way  of  taking  it.  I  thought  we  were  friends — 
friends  in  the  sense  you'd  care  to  talk  about  my  work 
with  me.  Naturally,  I  expected  frankness.  You  can 
hit  as  hard  as  you  want,  you  know.  It  isn't  that,  but 
your  wanting  to  say  nothing,  to  refuse  me  the  benefit 
of  criticism.  Even  if  it  doesn't  interest  you.  .  .  ." 

"  I  haven't  said  it  doesn't  interest  me,"  she  inter- 
rupted, more  herself.  "  Painful,  disagreeable  things 
often  do  that.  It's  because  I  feel  strongly  about  the 
story,  too  strongly  perhaps,  that  I  don't  care  to  discuss 
it.  Yet,  after  all,  it  may  be  better  .  .  .  since  you  don't 
see — may  misinterpret," — and  her  voice  quickened  to 
pride  again — "  my  reasons.  I'd  like  to  ask  you,  though, 
first,  how  you  happened  to  choose  this  particular  theme. 
I  remember  you  once  told  me  you  cared  nothing  for 
scientific  theses,  that  they  didn't  '  appeal  to  your 
temperament '  was,  I  think,  your  phrase.  Naturally, 
I  was  rather  surprised  to  find  the  story  what  it  is." 

"  It's  true,  I  never  have  much  interested  myself 


THE  QUEST  159 

in  such  things;  and  it  was  the  dramatic  rather  than 
the  problematic  element  of  heredity  that  tempted 
me.  I  wanted  to  see  if  I  couldn't  make  a  scientific 
thesis  a  bit  less  dreary  artistically  than  most  novelists 
do.  It  wouldn't  have  occurred  to  me,  though,  I  confess, 
if  I  hadn't  had  a  talk  with  Percy  Colston  last  summer. 
He,  really,  gave  me  the  idea  of  the  plot." 

Her  face,  that  had  yielded  a  little,  grew  cold  again. 
"  Ah,  then  it  was  deliberate!" 

She  stopped  at  his  puzzled  look,  and  half  turned  from 
him,  as  if  to  conceal  emotion. 

Afterwards,  he  wondered  why  he  had  not  better 
understood;  but  he  merely  thought  her  displeased  at 
his  putting  himself  under  obligations  to  a  man  who  had 
abused  her  mother's  confidence,  and  been  the  cause 
of  so  much  mortification  to  herself. 

"I'm  sorry  if  you  think  it  was  in  bad  taste,"  he 
stammered.  "  I  shouldn't  have  done  it  now,  under  the 
circumstances  of  our  friendship,  for  I  know  you  dis- 
like him,  or  rather  don't  respect  him — I  don't  suppose 
you'd  trouble  to  dislike  him — but  I  hadn't  decided  on 
any  plot  for  a  new  book,  and  he  said  it  was  an  idea 
which  had  come  into  his  head,  that  he  never  wrote 
stories;  and  after  he  suggested  it,  it  took  such  hold 
of  me  I  felt  as  though  I  had  to  write  it." 

She  had  turned  towards  him  as  he  spoke,  and  if 
there  was  still  a  trace  of  emotion  in  her  face,  relief  was 
there,  as  if  he  had  reinstated  himself  in  her  opinion, 
to  some  degree,  by  his  defence. 

"  Perhaps  I  have  misjudged  you,"  she  said,  after 


160  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

a  moment.  "  That  was  not  what  I  meant.  It  is  not 
my  place  to  criticize  you  for  taking  advantage  of  Mr. 
Colston's  .  .  .  ideas.  It's  not  your  taking  them,  it's 
the  spirit  in  which  you  use  them.  Have  you  no  scruples 
in  treating  a  scientific  theory  ...  for  the  sake  of  mere 
dramatic  suggestion  ?  " 

Somehow,  for  all  his  resolve  to  be  honest  with  her, 
he  hesitated  over  confessing  that,  in  reading  up  for 
his  story,  he  had  been  won  to  believe — or  half  believe — 
his  heredity  thesis;  and  he  said  instead: 

"  It's  a  plausible  theory,  anyway." 

"And  is  it  being  'plausible'  enough?  Have  you 
thought  of  the  public  effect  of  such  a  story  as  The 
Labyrinth  of  Life?  You  must  realise  what  harm  it 
can  do." 

Under  her  reproach,  the  tone  of  her  voice,  which 
had  the  vibrating  quality  of  suppressed  feeling,  he 
experienced  tenderness  for  her  mixed  with  something 
of  a  schoolboy's  sense  of  guilt  under  his  master's 
eye.  How  could  he  disillusion  her,  as  he  had  planned 
that  night,  by  telling  her  that  the  hard-won  faith  she 
had  in  his  character,  as,  apparently,  it  revealed  itself 
in  his  first  book  she  liked,  was  misplaced,  that  the 
manuscript  he  now  held  was  more  than  a  story  ...  it 
was  his  true  self?  Her  fingers  still  touched  the  chair- 
back  near  her,  and  as  his  glance  fell  on  their  tapered 
whiteness,  he  wondered  what  their  caress  was  like. 
Her  hands  seemed  destined  only  to  hurl  thunderbolts 
of  condemnation  at  him.  As  they  stood  there,  before 
the  fire,  regarding  each  other,  she  seemed  to  him  a 


THE  QUEST  161 

dark-browed  young  spirit  guarding  the  sacred  rights 
of  life  he  trampled  in  artistic  wantonness. 

"  I  speak  strongly,"  she  continued,  after  a  pause, 
which  seemed  offered  him  as  means  to  justify  himself, 
"  Because  I  can't  understand  how  a  man  like  you  can 
write  like  that.  I  thought  you  had  more  conscience 
than  to  try  to  persuade  people  that  hereditary  instincts 
are  uncombatable,  that  people  are  powerless  against 
the  taint  of  blood,  the  weaknesses  handed  down  to 
them.  You  ask  me  what  I  think  of  the  story,  so 
conceived,  flippantly,  without  pity  or  heart.  What 
do  you  suppose  I  think  ?  can  help  thinking — of  it  ... 
or  of  you  ?  " 

She  was  severe  with  him,  certainly,  he  said  to  him- 
self, and  he  fancied  she  would  be  more  so,  if  she  knew 
the  truth.  His  impulse  to  be  honest  died  within  him 
as  he  thought  it  was  of  no  use.  .  .  .  He  would  lose  her 
through  sincerity,  as  he  had  half  lost  her  already. 

"  But  what  difference  does  it  make  whether  I,  Julian 
Harding,  personally  believe  or  not  a  theory  if  that 
theory  has  the  endorsement  of  great  scientists?  " 
he  temporized  lamely. 

"  But  scientific  works  don't  generally  fall  into  the 
hands  of  emotional,  unthinking  people,"  she  returned. 
"  And  you  have  deliberately  aimed,  it  seems,  to  make 
it  all  as  bad  as  possible,  for  the  sake  of  a  '  dramatic ' 
ending,  I  suppose.  And  has  even  science  the  right  to 
preach  non-resistance?  Why  should  one  live  at  all, 
if  one  can't  conquer  things  in  oneself,  if  one  has  to 
succumb  under  an  ancestral  weight?  " 

M 


162  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

"  Yet  if  some  fall,  others  rise,  on  the  evolutionary, 
principle,  you  know.  If  it  weren't  for  that,  it  would 
be  all  pretty  hopeless,"  he  ventured,  adding  mentally, 
"  as  it  all  really  is." 

"  But  I  won't  believe  there  isn't  a  chance  for  every- 
body to  rise,"  she  exclaimed  with  feeling.  "  That's 
what  I  used  so  to  dislike  in  you,  the  feeling  you  pre- 
tended to  have  about  life.  I  know  there  is  the  principle 
of  right  in  the  world,  and  there  would  be  none  if  the 
weak  had  no  resort.  A  scientist  who  snatches  away  that 
hope  from  people,  commits  a  sin.  It  disappoints  me, 
that  you  should  write  such  a  book  .  .  .  after  your  other 
book  showed  you  in  such  a  different  and  helping 
light." 

He  was  silent,  hesitating  under  an  impulse.  He 
knew  that  she  verged  on  that  reactionary  moment 
which  comes  after  condemnation  has  been  taken 
humbly,  as  he  had  taken  hers.  Having  been  so  harsh, 
it  would  not  be  difficult  for  her  to  be  kind.  He  was 
tempted  to  tell  her  that  she  was  right  in  thinking  he 
did  himself  injustice,  that  he  had  been  led  astray  by 
an  artistic  whim  to  misrepresent  himself,  that  he  did 
not  believe  in  heredity,  that  he  was  the  more  hopeful 
teacher  of  his  first  book,  not  the  bitter  discouraged 
philosopher  of  the  pages  she  had  so  lately  turned  with 
displeasure.  But  self-respect  led  him  to  confide  to 
her  only  the  conclusion  he  reached. 

"  Well,  you  have  convinced  me  of  the  mistake.  I 
hate  disappointing  you.  ..."  He  saw  she  faltered  a 
little  under  his  look.  "I'll  not  publish^the  story.  I 


THE  QUEST  163 

promise  you  that,  if  only  it  will  help  to  redeem  me 
in  your  opinion." 

Faint  colour  touched  her  cheek.  He  had  once  before 
seen  it  there,  the  day  he  had  talked  with  her  in  the 
Bois.  It  encouraged  him,  as  some  proof  that  her 
severity  sprang  from  regard  for  him.  Something  about 
her  made  him  feel  she  perhaps  cared  more  than  she 
wished  to  show. 

Having  spoken,  he  made  a  little  gesture,  as  though 
to  pitch  the  manuscript  into  the  fire. 

"No!"  she  cried,  putting  her  hand  arrestingly 
on  his  arm.  Alarmed  protest  was  in  her  voice. 

He  hardly  knew  whether  he  really  had  intended  to 
cast  it  in  the  hearth  where  the  flaming  logs  burned 
brightly,  like  licking  tongues  hungry  for  food.  It  was 
at  least  a  genuine  half-impulse;  for  he  was  stirred  by 
the  sense  of  her  love  subtly  responding  to  his  own. 
He  was  sensitive,  too,  to  condemnation  of  his  work, 
and  her  words  had  left  him  robbed  of  pride  in  his 
story. 

Yet  the  touch  of  her  hand  on  his  arm  almost  seemed 
to  compensate. 

"  You  don't  want  me  to  destroy  it,  then  ?  "  he  asked, 
thinking  how  capricious  her  sex  was. 

"  No,  not  like  that — as  though  you  were  doing  it  to 
please  me.  It  is  too  much  a  sacrifice  to  another's 
opinion.  If  you  destroy  it,  do  it  for  your  own  sake. 
Otherwise  you  will  regret  it." 

"  But  you've  convinced  me  I  ought  to.  That  it's 
the  only  thing  to  do,"  he  returned.  "  Your  good 

M2 


164  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

opinion  matters  more  than  a  book  more  or  less  .  .  . 
though  a  half-year's  thrown  away."  He  couldn't 
help  adding  this,  that  she  might  appreciate  the  sacrifice. 
"  You  told  me,  not  kfng  ago,"  he  went  on,  "  that  I 
seemed  changed  since  you  first  knew  me.  If  I  am,  you 
must  know  why.  You  remember  that  day  in  the  Bois 
I  told  you  I  felt  you  were  going  to  be  an  influence  on 
my  life.  You  didn't  believe  me — I  don't  know  I 
altogether  believed  myself.  It  was  only  instinct. 
You  drew  me  then,  had  been  drawing  me  from  the 
first,  though  I  didn't  guess  what  our  wrangles  meant 
really,  how  surface  antagonism  was  attraction  at  heart. 
And,  well .  .  .  you  must  see  what  it's  grown  to  be  with 
me." 

f'  I  haven't  wanted  to  see." 

She  did  not  say  it  falteringly,  but  she  had  turned  a 
little  from  him.  It  seemed  a  favourable  sign  that  she 
did  not  face  his  love-making  as  courageously  as  she  had 
their  previous  issues. 

"  Your  friendship  is  all  I've  cared  for." 

"  And  you  have  cared  about  that,  then  ?  Do  you 
think  if  only  you  had  a  little  more  confidence  in  me 
that  you'd  care — otherwise — too?  I'm  not  sure,"  he 
went  on  boldly,  "  you  don't  already.  I  can't  help 
feeling  that  you  do  ...  a  little." 

It  was  unwise;  the  colour  again  came  to  her  cheek. 
It  was  the  stain  of  indignation,  as  though  he  had  looked 
rudely  into  her  bosom. 

"  But  you  have  no  right  to,"  she  responded  quickly. 
"I've  given  you  no  cause.  Surely  one  may  step  a 


THE  QUEST  165 

little  out  of  one's  reserve,  be  a  friend  to  a  man,  without 
such  inference.  I  trusted,  somehow,  you  understood 
that  .  .  .  that  I  hate  the  thought  of  love,"  she  ended 
almost  fiercely.  She  looked  at  him  now,  as  though  she 
challenged  him  to  find  in  her  face  any  sign  of  it  there. 

"  Hate  it  ...  and  why?  "  he  asked.  "You  don't 
mean  that.  "  You  can't  mean  it.  It's  nonsense. 
Why  should  you  not  care  for  what  all  women  care  for 
...  to  love  and  be  loved.  And  I  need  you,  Monica. 
You  must  see  that,  what  a  help  you'd  be  in  the  life  of 
a  man  like  me,  who  hasn't  any  particular  standards. 
It's  what  you've  done  for  me  that  is  almost  like  a 
claim  to  what  you  can  still  do.  You've  started  me 
in  the  right  direction.  Surely,  you  ought  to  want  to 
keep  me  there." 

"  But  I  can't  keep  you  there,"  she  exclaimed,  as 
though  struggling  against  the  appeal  that  affected  her 
most.  "  Nobody  can,  but  yourself.  I've  given  you 
my  confidence  in  the  character  you  malign.  If  that 
can't  help  .  .  .  nothing  can." 

He  tried  to  take  her  hand.  In  his  thoughts  he  often 
named  her  "  Monica  of  the  White  Hand."  "  It's  not 
your  ethics,  you  know,"  he  said  with  a  conciliatory 
tenderness,  "  it's  you  that  counts.  Think,  Monica, 
what  you  could  call  out  in  me." 

"  Don't  ask  me  to  make  your  life  for  you,  Mr.  Hard- 
ing," and  hearing  her  use  the  formal  word,  he  wondered 
if  she  was  resisting  him  or  herself.  "  It  doesn't  lie  with 
others  .  .  .  you  know  it.  You  think  I  matter,  for  the 
moment.  But  I  don't.  And  besides " — he  was 


166  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

touched  by  the  dignity  in  her  face,  which  she  assumed, 
he  thought,  from  a  realization  that  she  appeared  to  be 
leading  him  on — "  it's  all  useless.  I  never  intend  to 
marry.  Nobody,  nothing  would  induce  me  to." 

"  I'm  afraid,"  he  said,  with  a  smile  that  wasn't  a 
particularly  brilliant  effort,  "  that  if  men  took  the  word 
of  every  woman  who  said  that,  there  wouldn't  be  many 
marriages  on  earth  .  .  .  however  many  there  may  be  in 
heaven." 

"  You  may  believe  me." 

"  Yes,  as  regards  myself,  no  doubt,"  he  answered  a 
little  sarcastically,  for  while  he  hadn't  given  up  hope, 
something  told  him  his  suit  was  destined  to  come  to 
naught.  "  But  how  about  others.  Suppose  the  right 
man  comes  . . .  and,  evidently,  I'm  not  he." 

She  seemed  to  appreciate  his  pique  and  to  wish  to 
soothe  it.  After  all,  she  was  more  womanly  than  she 
appeared.  "  I've  told  you  that  it  has  nothing  to  do 
with  you  .  .  .  with  anybody." 

"  But  your  reasons !  Give  me  some  fair  plea  for  such 
a  feeling  1  "  He  hoped,  because  he  wished  to  hope, 
that  he  could  make  short  work  of  them. 

"  My  reasons  concern  myself,"  she  answered;  "  and 
I'd  much  rather  you  wouldn't  speak  any  more  of  this. 
In  any  case," — she  hesitated,  a  little,  over  it — "  I 
should  never  marry  you,  Mr.  Harding.  I  don't  mean 
it  unkindly  .  .  .  but  only  to  make  you  see  I'm  serious, 
so  you  may  dismiss  the  thought  of  me  while  it  is, 
perhaps,  only  an  impulse.  I  mean,"  and  she  seemed 
to  wish  that  she  might  make  herself  quite  clear,  "  that 


THE  QUEST  167 

whether  I  cared  for  you  or  not,  it  would  be  out  of  the 
question.  If  you  don't  see  why,  some  day  you  may." 

He  flushed,  sensitively.  "  I  confess,  I  don't,"  he 
answered.  "  Unless  the  fault  lies  with  my  character." 

"  Your  character  has  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  she  said 
gently.  "  There  is  a  great  deal  in  you  that  I  like, 
though  you  are  always  misrepresenting  yourself.  But 
you  have  shown  me  what  are  your  views  about  certain 
things,  and  they  make  my  refusal  inevitable.  I  say 
that  really  to  spare  your  feelings,  not  to  hurt  them; 
and  to  prove  to  you  that  you  mustn't  ever  speak  to  me 
in  this  way  again."  Her  voice  had  dropped  almost 
into  pleading. 

He  did  not,  however,  stop  to  consider  what  she 
meant,  though  vaguely  he  supposed  she  referred  to 
the  heresies  of  his  manuscript,  which,  it  seemed  to 
him,  she  could  now  afford  to  forget.  Surely,  by  his 
promise  to  destroy  the  story,  the  poor  ghost  of  his 
"  mistake  "  in  writing  the  book  needn't  hang  about 
them,  dispensing  its  death-damps.  In  fact,  though  he 
didn't  argue  it  out  with  himself,  it  gave  him  a  feeling 
that  after  all  she  was  "  serious  "  to  the  extent  that 
made  her  half  the  intellectual  prude  Percy  Colston 
accused  her  of  being.  He  almost  resented  his  vain 
sacrifice,  and  he  replied,  in  his  impulse  of  chagrin: 

"  Then  I  suppose  it  is  rather  stupid  to  speak  of 
'  friendship  '  either.  When  one  leaves  it  for  something 
more,  it's  absurd  to  suppose  one  ever  goes  back  to  it. 
One  doesn't." 

"I'm  sorry  you  ever  left  it  then,  Mr.  Harding."     He 


168  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

saw  that  his  air  of  finality  about  their  relations  grieved 
her;  her  eyes  showed  some  pain,  and  the  proud 
antagonistic  woman  who  had  treated  him  to  a  lecture 
on  the  duties  of  authors  to  the  public  had  subsided, 
leaving  her  oddly  young,  faltering  in  spite  of  herself, 
and  certainly  a  woman  that  a  man  would  like  to  kiss. 
It  was  not  the  grand  Miss  Eversley  who  swept  by  in 
regal  skirts  to  crown  the  detested  Percy  Colston  for 
winning  a  mediaeval  golden  eglantine.  It  was  a  girl 
who  regretted  that  a  man  who  had  become  her  friend 
was  breaking  with  her  under  the  delusion  that  love 
could  make  either  of  them  happy. 

He  softened  under  it,  piqued  as  he  was;  though  he 
put  out  his  hand  formally.  He  really  hoped  by  this 
mark  of  farewell  that  she  would,  with  the  unexpected- 
ness of  woman — which,  after  all  a  man  expects — treat 
with  him  ere  the  parting  was  final.  But  she  did  not 
waver,  so  he  said: 

"  Monica,  why  must  it  be  your  answer  ?  I  believe 
you  do  care  for  me,  though  you  won't  say  so.  Isn't 
there  anything  that  will  change  you?  " 

"  No,  nothing,"  she  answered  briefly,  though  it 
was  not,  in  its  tone,  a  hard  answer. 

"  Very  well,  then,"  he  replied.  And  with  the  memory 
of  the  picture  she  made,  standing,  with  saddened  eyes, 
by  the  fire,  he  left  her. 


169 


CHAPTER  XII 

HARDING  stood  moodily  at  his  window,  watching  the 
watery  light  of  a  dull  February  afternoon  fade  from  the 
sky-line  above  the  long  black  silhouette  of  the  Palais 
de  Justice. 

He  was  heartily  tired  of  Paris,  tired  of  its  vulgar 
winter  weather  that  dampened  his  spirits,  tired  of  the 
futile  life  he  had  led  the  last  two  months.  Literary 
success  had  come  to  him,  and  he  was  taking  it  no  better 
than  his  former  failures.  Indeed,  he  sometimes 
wondered  if  success  wasn't  the  worst  failure  of  all.  In 
a  way,  he  would  have  liked  to  think — sometimes  did 
think — that  Monica  Eversley's  rejection  of  him  was  the 
cause  of  his  discontent  with  himself  and  the  world. 
But  that  feeling  was  only  the  surface  conviction  of 
moments.  His  gloomy  humour,  in  analysing  himself, 
could  not  credit  the  despairing  lover;  and  he  asked 
himself  if  his  grievance  wasn't  less  a  blighted  heart 
than  wounded  vanity — pique  at  not  succeeding  any 
better  than  Nicolls  and  Fernet.  Whatever  the  reason, 
the  thought  of  Monica  Eversley  continued  to  dominate 
him — the  more  desirable,  perhaps,  because  unattainable. 
Often  he  criticized  her  resentfully,  ridiculed  his  folly 
hi  proposing  to  her;  and  with  it  was  the  regret  that 
he  had  forfeited  self-respect  in  adopting  such  a  tone 
with  her,  that  Christmas  night.  It  had  been  in  the  hope 


170  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

of  winning  her;  and  having  failed,  he  would  like  to  be 
able  to  reflect  that,  at  least,  he  had  been  honest  with 
her,  stood,  so  to  say,  by  his  philosophic  guns.  He  had  not 
seen  her  since,  although  he  had  left  cards  at  the  house 
several  times  when  he  knew  that  both  she  and  her 
mother  would  be  out;  for  he  preferred  that  Mrs.  Eversley 
should  not  suspect  his  relations  with  her  daughter 
were  broken  off.  He  supposed  she  would  eventually 
find  a  new  shoulder  to  lean  on.  Percy  Colston  alleged 
that  she  was  given  to  discussing  her  daughter's  little 
love  affairs;  Harding  did  not  want  'to  be  quoted  as 
the  last  chapter.  There  were  times  when  he  would 
have  liked  to  fall  back  on  the  old  friendly  footing 
with  Monica,  for  he  did  not  believe  that  many  men  took 
rejections  as  tragically  as  they  protested.  But  he  had 
committed  himself  to  an  attitude,  and  pride,  if  not 
sentiment,  held  him  to  it.  And  it  had,  at  least,  the 
virtue  of  dignity.  He  did  not  want  Monica  to  think, 
any  more  than  he  wished  to  think  himself,  that  his 
feelings  for  her  were  trivial. 

He  had  not  taken  up  any  new  literary  work.  There 
was,  as  yet,  no  particular  need  of  having  another  book 
ready,  for  The  Horns  of  the  Altar  was  still  selling  well. 
His  royalties,  the  first  of  the  year,  had  been  gratify- 
ingly  large ;  and  in  the  flush  of  easier  circumstances  he 
had — unaccustomed  to  a  full  pocket — let  himself 
go  a  good  deal,  in  taking  the  pleasures  Paris  afforded. 
Reaction  from  late  nights  had  added  to  his  bad  spirits, 
for  he  was  not  strong,  and  he  had  inherited  a  touch  of 
neurasthenia  from  his  father,  a  man  of  irritable  nerves 


THE  QUEST  171 

and  disposed  to  melancholy  like  himself.  It  had  only 
been  by  exercising  care  over  his  health  that  he  had 
borne  the  strain  of  New  York  life;  his  constitution 
had  never  quite  recovered  from  the  physical  breakdown 
of  his  first  youth. 

It  was  with  a  feeling  of  boredom  that  he  turned  from 
the  dreary  prospects  outside,  and  picked  up  a  volume 
lying  on  the  table.  It  was  De  Musset's  Poesies 
Nouvelles,  which  had  lately  come  from  the  binder's — a 
picturesque  old  shop  behind  St.  Eustache  that  he  had 
unearthed  in  roaming  about  Paris.  Glancing  over  its 
pages  he  came  on  the  tale  of  Rolla — thinly  disguised 
figure  of  De  Musset  himself — who,  seeker  after  the 
life  of  the  heart,  preferred  the  prodigal  brief  career  to 
a  long  one  of  ennui  and  prudence.  Why  not,  Harding 
mused,  follow  that  hero's  example  ? 

//  prit  trois  bourses  d'or,  et  durant  trots  annees, 
II  vecut  au  soleil  sans  se  douter  des  lois. 

He  had  his  little  capital — his  "  three  purses  " — and 
it  would  allow  him  to  wander  where  he  would,  far  from 
cities,  civilization,  for  which,  he  thought  dispiritedly, 
he  was  temperamentally  unfit.  What  had  he  ever  got 
out  of  it  really  ? 

He  had  travelled  so  little.  The  one  momentous 
experience  had  been  his  half-year  in  South  America. 
Nothing  he  had  seen  since  had  approached  those  early 
vivid  impressions:  the  sun-steeped  landscapes,  the 
billowy  green  savannahs;  the  palm  forests  lifting  royal 
crowns;  the  flight  of  parakeets  across  the  twilight- 
reddened  heavens,  the  enchanted  nights  of  flooding 


172  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

moonlight  so  bright  it  awoke  the  hubbub  of  birds  mis- 
taking it  for  dawn.  He  remembered  how  the  odour  of 
jasmine  had  filled  his  bedroom  where,  through  the  open 
door,  bats  and  huge  moths  entered,  beating  against  the 
netting  of  his  couch  like  evil  dreams.  Why  had  he  left 
such  freedom  for  the  tiresome,  grinding  life  of  cities,  for 
the  mockery  of  art  ambition  ?  How  little  did  literary 
success  mean  to  him.  He  was  tired  of  it  already.  He 
wondered  if  many  writers  cared  as  much  for  their 
profession  as  they  pretended.  He  had  encountered  no 
few  who  confessed  to  its  weary  strain,  who  doubtless 
would  have  been  glad  to  escape  if  they  could  from  such 
a  life  of  mean  rewards. 

It  was  long  after  his  usual  hour  for  dining;  and  he 
left  his  lodgings,  turning  his  steps  towards  the  bright 
Boulevards,  its  throngs  and  brasseries,  with  their  music 
and  bustle.  He  was  sick  of  that  cheap  side  of  Paris 
life,  but  it  was  better  than  brooding  in  his  room. 

He  had  got  as  far  as  the  Place  Roy  ale  before  he  realized 
it  was  Mardi  Gras.  Traffic  had  been  suspended  in  the 
main  down-town  avenues,  so  that  out-door  celebra- 
tion of  the  death  of  Carnival  might  be  pursued  without 
bar.  The  Boulevards  were  already  thick  underfoot 
with  confetti,  and  the  crowd  was  keyed  up  to  mad 
merriment.  Camelots  vended,  in  shrill  voice,  bags  of 
parti-coloured  missiles  and  masks;  and  the  brimming 
stream  of  pedestrians,  some  in  domino  and  fancy  dress, 
were  engaged  in  animated  warfare.  Harding  was 
facetiously  greeted,  as  he  made  his  way  along,  from 
time  to  time  receiving  a  fusillade  of  confetti  in  full  face. 


THE  QUEST  173 

But  he  was  in  no  mood  to  respond,  and  it  all  struck  him 
morosely,  as  some  Dance  of  Death  that  mocked  at  his 
loneliness  and  depression.  He  almost  regretted  that 
he  had  come  abroad. 

A  fine  rain  began  to  fall,  and  the  Boulevards  were 
quickly  deserted  for  various  refuges.  Harding  found 
himself  near  a  restaurant,  and  entered  it,  at  random,  to 
get  his  belated  dinner. 

The  drizzle  was  over  when  he  came  out;  and  a  chill 
wind  blew  in  the  street.  Turning  up  his  coat  collar,  he 
strolled  as  far  as  the  Place  de  l'Op6ra,  where  he  paused, 
debating  whether  or  not  he  should  go  back  to  his  room. 

The  OpeYa  was  ablaze  with  light,  announcing  one  of 
its  periodical  masked  balls.  Harding  had  never 
attended  any  of  these,  and  he  yielded  to  curiosity  to  see 
a  spectacle  that  had  lost  much  of  its  old  prestige  for 
abandoned  mummery.  Buying  a  ticket  at  the  bureau, 
with  its  row  of  black-garbed  officials,  looking  like 
judges  convened  to  pass  sentence  on  human  folly,  he 
mounted  the  great  marble  staircase  to  the  couloirs 
giving  on  the  parquet,  cleared  of  seats  to  accommodate 
the  dancers.  It  was  after  midnight,  and  the  rout  was 
getting  into  full  swing.  Newcomers  like  himself  were 
pouring  in,  the  majority  in  evening  dress,  some  in 
domino.  The  music  sent  deafening  ripples  over  the 
ebullition  of  human  voices.  Wedging  his  way  through 
the  crowd  Harding  found  a  place  whence  he  secured  a 
general  view  of  the  house. 

The  battle  that  earlier  had  animated  the  Boulevards, 
was  being  waged  here  with  greater  verve;  coloured 


174  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

paper  discs  rained  through  the  air  and  lay  in  heaps 
underfoot;  shooting  stars,  trailing  long  ribbons,  shot 
from  the  boxes  and  gave  the  pit  the  appearance  of  a 
huge,  glittering  spider  web,  among  the  meshes  of  which 
the  dancers  struggled  like  bright-winged  insects. 
Quadrilles  were  in  progress  and  Harding  gazed  at  the 
phantasy  of  costume  that  picked  out  in  warm  hues  the 
black,  shifting  mass.  There  were  the  usual  parti- 
coloured figures  in  tights,  the  Pierrots  and  Columbines, 
mignons  of  Henri  II,  that  flirted  with  Watteau  shep- 
herdesses and  goddesses  of  liberty;  musketeers  in  false 
noses,  that  capered  with  the  sorceresses  and  vivandieres, 
ogling  caricatured  notabilities  of  the  day.  Mixed  with 
these  were  the  conventionally  dominoed  contingent, 
dancers  in  ordinary  dress,  foreign  adventurers,  vieux 
marcheurs,  provincial  sports  arm  in  arm  with  farded 
mistresses  ...  a  veritable  Masque  of  Comus,  where 
gaiety  expressed  itself  in  high  kicking,  shrill  jest,  and 
breathless  laughter. 

When  the  quadrille  was  over,  Harding  joined  the 
others  circulating  about  the  floor.  He  strayed  idly, 
glancing  up  at  the  boxes  occupied  by  demi-mondaines, 
rich  shopkeepers,  foreigners,  and  others  who  preferred 
to  be  mere  spectators. 

As  he  passed  one  of  the  boxes,  he  received  in  his 
face  a  fusillade  of  confetti.  It  was  followed  by  a  high- 
keyed  laugh  that  seemed  familiar.  When  he  had 
sufficiently  cleared  his  vision,  he  beheld  Percy  Colston 
leaning  towards  the  pit  and  signalling.  Behind  him 
were  two  women  in  masks  and  black  silk  dominoes. 


THE  QUEST  175 

"  Come  up  and  join  us,"  the  poet  hailed.  "  The 
Baxters  are  with  me,  studying  half-world,  fleshings 
and  would-be  devilry.  We  watched  you  straying 
about  and  couldn't  make  up  our  minds  whether  you've 
attended  the  ball  as  a  Watts'  Hymn  or  as  Alaster, 
Weary  of  his  Solitude." 

His  companions  seconded  the  invitation  by  beckon- 
ings,  and  rather  reluctantly,  Harding  made  his  way  into 
the  box. 

"  Well  now,"  remarked  Miss  Zenobia,  as  she  shook 
hands,  "  isn't  this  real  nice!  We  were  talking  of  you 
only  yesterday  and  wondering  if  you'd  clean  forgotten 
us?  I  don't  know  as  I'd  a  let  you  find  me  at  such  a 
gay  place  as  this,  if  it  wasn't  you're  a  stranger,  these 
days.  I  haven't  congratulated  you  yet  about  your 
book.  Many  happy  returns  of  the  day!  Why,  they 
say  it's  been  selling  like  hot  cakes  in  America,  so  I 
guess  you're  quite  set  up!  " 

Buttercup,  who  had  taken  off  her  mask  to  fan  her- 
self with  it,  made  a  grimace  at  her  aunt's  homely 
similitude.  Harding  had  the  feeling  that  she  fancied 
herself  evolved  beyond  such  phraseology.  She  was  less 
florid  in  looks  and  was  already  fulfilling  her  promise 
of  being  handsomer.  Had  the  poet  then  not  succeeded 
in  keeping  her  crude? 

"  Yes,"  she  supplemented,  "he's  quite  dropped  old 
friends.  But  we  all  know  why."  And  she  smiled 
significantly,  with  reproach  in  her  eyes. 

"  Yes,  Buttercup  and  I  have  bet  as  to  who  is  to  get  the 
apple  out  at  Neuilly,"  the  poet  contributed  languidly. 


176  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

"  I  say  it's  the  mother,  and  she  holds  it's  the  daughter. 
Which  is  it — Venus  or  Minerva?  I  wish  you'd  tell 
us,  for  we're  both  dying  to  know." 

"  Leave  him  alone,  Percy !  "  said  Buttercup  gaily. 
"  I  didn't  have  him  come  up  here  to  be  made  sport  of. 
He's  going  to  give  me  a  dance,  aren't  you,  Mr  Harding  ? 
Percy  says  it  isn't  comme  il  faut,  but  I  don't  care 
whether  it  is  or  not.  I'm  crazy  for  a  waltz.  There, 
that's  the  '  Valse  Bleue '  now  .  .  .  it's  such  a  dream ! 
Here,  Percy,  put  on  my  mask,  if  you're  afraid  your 
friends  will  see  you." 

"  There  are  none  of  them  here,  I  assure  you,"  the 
poet  returned,  affecting  to  stifle  a  yawn.  "  Nobody 
comes  to  the  Opera  ball  any  more.  It  went  out  of 
fashion  years  ago.  The  managers  have  to  hire  male 
supers  to  try  to  give  it  life.  As  you  see,  it's  dying  of 
low-class  respectability.  It  took  our  grandmothers 
to  give  it  spice." 

"  I  know  the  kind  my  grandmother  would  give  it," 
Miss  Zenobia  commented.  "  And  that's  cayenne. 
She  had  plenty  on  her  tongue,  I  can  tell  you,  when 
she  didn't  take  to  other  folk's  doings.  But  all  the  same, 
go  dance  with  Mr.  Harding,  Buttercup,  if  you  want 
to.  Now  we're  in  Paris,  you  might  as  well  take  in 
everything  going.  Percy  here  forgets  girls  will  be 
girls " 

"  When  they  won't  be  boys,"  the  poet  finished, 
pointing  out  a  fluffy-headed  nymph  that  skipped  by 
dressed  en  garfon.  "  You'd  better  take  a  turn  your- 


THE  QUEST  177 

self,  Miss  Zenobia.  It  will  save  you  the  expense  of 
going  back  to  Marienbad  this  summer." 

"  Don't  you  be  pert !  "  replied  that  lady,  with  a 
flush  of  ire.  "I'd  rather  see  a  torn-boy  than  a  Miss 
Nancy,  any  day." 

Buttercup  laughed,  as  she  and  Harding  left  the 
box.  "  Aunt  Zenobia  is  a  match  for  Percy,"  she  said, 
carelessly.  "  They're  always  at  it.  But  you  look  as  if 
you  had  the  blues,"  she  added,  pausing  to  regard  him. 
"  Perhaps  you  don't  feel  up  to  a  waltz  ?  " 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  think  it  will  be  great  sport," 
he  returned,  summoning  a  mood  more  suited  to  her 
gaiety.  "  Especially  with  you,"  he  supplemented  as  an 
after- thought. 

She  had  put  on  her  mask  again,  so  he  did  not  see  the 
slight  increase  of  her  hardy  bloom,  as  she  answered: 
"  You're  improving.  You  didn't  use  to  be  much  at 
compliments.  Has  Mrs.  Eversley  been  taking  you  in 
hand?" 

"  Suppose  we  drop  the  Eversley  subject,"  he  said, 
rather  stiffly.  "  This  is  the  way  to  the  floor,  I 
believe." 

Buttercup  danced  well,  and  Harding,  taking  fire 
from  her  excited  relish,  enjoyed  the  rather  jostled  waltz. 
A  looping  tress  of  his  partner's  hair,  blown  from  the 
rich  mass  crowning  her  head,  kept  tantalizingly 
brushing  his  cheek,  as  he  guided  her  round  the  floor. 
The  contact  with  her  healthy,  vibrant  youth  stirred 
his  pulse,  and  he  was  strongly  tempted  to  kiss  her 

N 


178  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

under  cover  of  the  general  revelry.  But  before  he  could 
put  the  impulse  into  effect,  the  music  stopped  with  a 
crashing  chord.  Buttercup  broke  in  to  one  of  her  ready 
laughs  as  they  turned  towards  the  corridor. 

"  Well,  this  is  old  times,"  she  said  gaily.  "  You 
remember  the  night  of  the  Captain's  dinner,  on  board 
the  Kdnigen  Luise,  how  we  danced  together  all  evening 
.  .  .  They  joked  us  about  being  '  engaged.'  Let's  find 
the  buffet  and  see  if  there's  such  a  thing  in  Paris  as  a 
glass  of  water.  Isn't  it  warm." 

They  discovered  the  refreshment  bar.  Harding  got 
his  companion  a  glass  of  iced  champagne,  and  then 
they  sought  seats.  Buttercup,  as  she  assuaged  her 
thirst,  continued  to  talk  animatedly  of  their  golden 
yesterdays.  Her  air  seemed  to  anticipate  confident 
to-morrows  together,  as  outcome  of  this  pleasant 
evening's  intimacy. 

She  hadn't  changed  much,  after  all,  he  thought, 
under  Percy  Colston's  tutelage.  The  more  sophisticated 
manner  with  which  she  had  greeted  him,  seemed  to 
slip  away  as  she  chatted  on  with  the  old  spontaneity. 
There  was  something  decidedly  attractive  about  her. 
If  they  had  married,  there  would  have  been,  of  course, 
mental  variance,  but  there  would,  also,  have  been 
healthy  everyday  enthusiasms  on  her  side,  that,  perhaps, 
would  have  won  him  from  his  pessimist  glooms  more 
effectively  than  Monica  Eversley's  insistent  moral 
standards.  And  florid,  crude,  over-accentuated  as  she 
was  still,  she  didn't  lack  intelligence  and  adaptability, 


THE  QUEST  179 

and  time  would  tone  her  down  to  pass  muster  in  the 
social  world.  She  was  the  kind  of  girl  that  even  the 
critical  would  learn  to  take  by  mere  force  of  the  way 
in  which  she  took  herself.  If  he  had  asked  her  to  marry 
him,  the  night  he  had  dined  at  the  Athen6e,  would 
it  have  been  the  mistake  he  thought  ? 

"  Do  you  "know,"  she  was  saying,  "  I've  often 
wished  you'd  gone  on  that  motor  trip  with  us." 

"  Yes,  I'm  sorry  I  didn't,"  he  said.  "  But  I  couldn't 
manage  it." 

The  admission,  or,  perhaps,  the  shade  of  regret  in  his 
voice  as  he  said  it,  seemed  to  fan  the  remembered 
rancour  to  something  like  a  flame. 

"  It  was  horrid  of  you  not  to,"  she  said.  "  And 
you've  been  horrid  ever  since.  Were  you  put  out 
because  I  asked  Percy  Colston  instead  ?  I  don't  believe 
you  like  him  much.  He  says  you've  dropped  him." 

"  I  never  particularly  took  him  up,"  Harding 
answered.  "  And  it's  a  case,  I  should  say,  of  his 
dropping  me.  Of  course,  I  wasn't  put  out  by  your 
asking  him.  Why  should  I  have  been?  And  as  for 
acting  '  horridly,'  I'm  sure  I  haven't  meant  to." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  call  it,  then,"  she  returned, 
giving  him  a  sentimental  glance.  "  But,  then,  I  never 
have  known  what  you  meant  by  anything.  Poets 
aren't  like  other  people." 

"  Don't,  please,  call  me  that,"  he  said.  "  I  leave 
poetry  to  Percy  Colston." 

"  You  leave  a  good  deal  to  him,  it  seems  to  me,"  she 
returned  significantly. 

N2 


i8o  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

"  Do  I  ?  "  His  momentary  feeling  about  her  had 
passed  away,  and  the  conversation  began  to  bore  him. 
Harding  preferred  to  do  his  own  courting. 

At  the  unenthusiastic  response,  a  piqued  flush 
mounted  to  her  cheek,  half  concealed  by  her  mask.  He 
saw  just  enough  of  the  flush  to  know  there  was  more. 

"  You  needn't  have  been  so  snappy  about  the  Evers- 
leys,"  she  said  with  abrupt  irrelevance.  His  stiffness 
when  they  left  the  box  had  evidently  been  marked, 
though  she  resented  it  so  tardily.  "  I  didn't  say  any- 
thing against  them,  did  I  ?  " 

"  No;  but  I  didn't  like  what  Percy  Colston  said." 

She  laughed  unpleasantly. 

"  I  should  think  they'd  be  accustomed  to  being  dis- 
cussed by  this  time,"  she  said.  "  At  least,  there  was 
enough  talk  about  the  grandmother  to  last  for  several 
generations.  So  I  hardly  wonder  you  are  touchy. 
Aunt  remembers  all  about  the  famous  Perdoe  trial,  only 
she'd  forgotten  the  name  of  the  Englishman  the  Perdoe 
woman's  daughter  married.  I  think  I'd  better  go 
back  to  the  box  now.  .  .  .  They'll  be  wondering  what's 
become  of  me."  She  got  up,  then  hesitated,  aware  of 
the  alienating  effect  of  her  speech.  "  I  shouldn't  have 
told  you,"  she  said  in  awkward  half-apology,  "  if  you 
hadn't  made  me  mad,  praising  them  so." 

He  did  not  reply,  and  perhaps  from  his  air  she 
guessed  the  truth;  that  something  more  than  friendship 
towards  the  Eversleys — towards  the  daughter,  at  least — 
had  made  him  difficult  over  her  criticism  in  the  box. 
The  realization  may  have  stung  her  heart,  at  any  rate 


THE  QUEST  181 

it  disposed  of  her  repentance.  She  regarded  him, 
facing  her,  stiffly  displeased,  thinking  how  ill-natured 
she  was,  understanding  her  too  well,  it  might  be;  and 
she  added,  in  a  forcedly  careless  voice : 

"  I  had  to  get  it  out  of  my  system.  After  all,  it  was 
only  paying  you  back  for  the  way  you  talked  of  Percy 
Colston.  I  am  engaged  to  him,  you  know." 

Somehow  he  got  the  impression  that  the  statement 
anticipated  fact.  Her  manner  suggested  she  had 
come  to  the  decision  while  she  stood  there.  She  was 
not  engaged  to  him,  but  she  had  made  up  her  mind  to 
be. 

He  had  recovered  himself.  "  Indeed  ?  "  he  returned. 
"  I  offer  you  my  heartiest  congratulations,  Miss  Baxter. 
No  doubt,  if  you  have  Percy  Colston  in  your  system, 
that  explains  your  wanting  to  get  a  good  many  things 
out  of  it.  There's  a  limit  to  what  one  system  can 
bear."  And  he  bowed  sarcastically. 

She  stared  with  startled  eyes  of  offence,  then  rather 
tempestuously  turned  towards  the  box.  Harding  fol- 
lowed her  in  silence  as  far  as  the  door,  reflecting  he  had 
been  inexcusably  rude. 

On  reaching  home,  he  found  a  note  that  had  arrived 
by  the  late  post.  It  was  from  Miss  Vanderhurst.  "  I'm 
in  Paris  for  a  few  days  on  my  way  to  Rome,"  she  wrote. 
"  Come  to  my  hotel  to-morrow  at  four,  and  we'll  go  to 
Colombin's  for  tea." 


182 


CHAPTER  XIII 

HARDING  hailed  Miss  Vanderhurst's  timely  reappear- 
ance in  Paris.  It  seemed  quite  providential  she  should 
turn  up  just  then;  for,  of  course,  she  could,  and  would, 
no  doubt,  tell  him  what  he  wanted  to  know.  He 
would  talk  quite  frankly  to  her  about  the  Eversleys,  and 
what  Buttercup  affirmed.  Buttercup,  he  said  to  him- 
self, had  inherited  some  of  the  cayenne  that  Miss  Zeno- 
bia  attributed  to  her  grandmother's  tongue.  He 
rather  wondered  at  that  lady's  apparent  knowledge  of 
such  an  ancestor;  but,  if  she  wasn't  mythical,  it  only 
went  to  prove  that  groceries  had  been  in  the  family 
some  generations. 

"  So  you've  become  famous  since  I  saw  you,"  was 
Miss  Vanderhurst's  greeting,  when  he  called  on  her 
next  day.  "  I  knew  you'd  wake  up  to  it,  sooner  or 
later.  I  was  charmed  with  The  Horns  of  the  Altar,  as  I 
wrote  you.  But,"  inspecting  him,  "  you're  not  look- 
ing well." 

"  I  can't  say  the  same  of  you,"  he  returned  gallantly. 
"  I  don't  know  when  I've  seen  you  more  blooming." 

"  Well,  if  I'm  blooming,  it  must  be  century-plant 
bloom,"  was  her  dry  reply,  blooming  still  more  at  the 
compliment.  "  But  tell  me,  what's  wrong  with  you  ? 
Is  it  that  troublesome  temperament  still?  Or  have 


THE  QUEST  183 

you  been  over- working ;  for  I  suppose  the  publishers 
are  demanding  more  stories  of  you." 

"  No;  I  haven't  been  writing  anything.  I've  been 
trying  to  amuse  myself,  and  I  find  it  overworks  one  far 
more  than  novels." 

"  So  that's  how  you  take  your  good  fortune,"  she 
chided.  "  I'm  ashamed  of  you.  Don't  get  bored. 
Life  ought  never  to  bore." 

"  It's  not  life  that  bores  me.     It's  myself. 

"  Then  don't  have  any  self.  Exist  for  other  people. 
I  thought  that  now  you'd  be  existing  for  Miss  Butter- 
cup Baxter.  In  anticipation  of  it  I've  religiously  drunk 
nothing  but  '  Surpassing  Ceylon '  since  I  saw  you. 
Don't  tell  me  you've  quarrelled  with  your  heiress." 

"  She  never  was  my  heiress.  She's  Percy  Colston's 
heiress  now,  as  it  happens.  At  least,  for  the  time  being. 
She's  just  announced  her  engagement  to  him." 

"  It's  a  broken  heart,  then  ?  I  hope  you've  saved 
the  pieces.  There's  always  some  one  ready,  you  know, 
to  mend  that  interesting  organ  when  the  owner's  young 
and  celebrated.  I  shall  have  to  cheer  you  up,  I  see. 
What  shall  we  do  for  the  few  days  I'm  here  ?  I  think 
I'd  like  to  go  to  the  Louvre.  It's  years  since  I've  seen 
the  '  Flying  Victory  '[and  the '  Virgin  of  the  Rocks.'  We'll 
lunch  on  duck  at  the  Tour  d' Argent,  go  to  one  of  those 
queer  students'  balls,  do  all  the  things  people  do 
when  they  first  come  to  Paris.  We'll  drink  Lipton's 
tea  instead  of  Surpassing  Ceylon  .  .  .  and  forget  the 
Baxters." 

"  I  never  particularly  remembered  them,"  he  said 


184  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

insincerely.  "  My  interest  in  them  existed  mostly  in 
your  imagination.  It's  the  old  complaint,  if  anything's 
wrong.  You  know  I  always  held  that  I  had  no  talent 
for  life." 

"  My  dear  boy,"  she  remonstrated,  giving  his  hand 
a  pat,  "  don't  be  so  in  love  with  your  Byronnic  gloom. 
It's  gone  out  of  fashion  with  soft  collars  and  loose 
ties  that  were  the  most  picturesque  part  of  it.  Nothing 
is  wrong  with  yourself  or  the  world.  When  something 
does  go  wrong  with  you,  you'll  recognise  the  need  of 
being  happy.  I  resolved  long  ago  I  would  be  happy  .  .  . 
and  I  have  been,  as  the  result.  It's  mostly  a  matter  of 
resolve.  I  wish  you  would  follow  my  example.  The 
Eversleys,"  she  said,  with  the  discretion  of  one  who 
knows  when  to  change  a  topic,  "  tell  me  they  see  little 
of  you  now.  Lena's  so  fond  of  you,  Mr.  Harding.  She 
says  you've  been  quite  lovely  to  her,  as  I  knew  you'd 
be." 

"  She's  been  lovely  to  me." 

"  Poor  Lena !  Did  you  know  she  met  with  a  motor 
accident,  the  other  day?  She  had  quite  a  shock  from 
the  collision,  and  the  doctor  has  kept  her  in  a  darkened 
room  ever  since.  He  fears  trouble  for  her  eyes." 

"  I'm  sorry No,  I  hadn't  heard." 

He  was  silent,  hesitating  how  to  begin. 

"  There's  something  you  can  do  for  me,  Miss  Vander- 
hurst,  if  you  will,"  he  said  soberly. 

"  You  know,  I'll  be  only  too  glad." 

"  Well,   it's  in  regard  to  Monica  Eversley,   then. 


THE  QUEST  185 

And  I'd  better  begin  by  telling  you  I  proposed  to  her 
and  she  wouldn't  have  me." 

"  Then  the  trouble  is  specific,  after  all  ?  I'm  sorry, 
Mr.  Harding."  She  was  still  a  moment,  considering 
him.  "  In  a  way  I'm  surprised  that  Monica  has  so 
appealed  to  you.  You're  sure  she  really  does  ?  " 

"When  I  tell  you  I  proposed  to  her?  "  he  said, 
in  rather  injured  tones.  "  I  admit  we  weren't  very 
sympathetic  at  first.  In  fact,  we  began  by  half  dis- 
liking each  other.  I  conquered  her  antipathy  finally  .  .  . 
and  thought  I'd  conquered  her.  It  all  came  about, 
I  suppose,  from  the  feeling  of  some  common  need, 
though  she  won't  concede  she  has  any  need  of  me." 

"  As  to  proposing  to  her,  Mr.  Harding,"  Miss  Vander- 
hurst  returned  a  bit  dryly,  "  I  don't  know  that  that 
proves  anything.  I've  seen  a  good  deal  of  men,  and 
it  seems  to  me  they  reach  stages  when  they're  apt 
to  propose  to  women  at  random.  You  say  you  think 
Monica  '  needs  you.'  Now,  I  have  my  doubts.  I 
question  if  she  has  need  of  anybody.  She  is  very  inde- 
pendent and  self  reliant.  I've  often  been  struck  with 
that,  and,  in  a  way,  it  rather  offends  my  old-fashioned 
notions  of  women  being  the  weaker  vessel.  You 
know  I'm  not  the  new  sort  of  woman  .  .  .  I've  lived  too 
long  to  try  to  be  new  in  anything.  And  Monica  appears 
to  me  very  distinctly  to  belong  to  the  period  that  pro- 
duced her." 

"  I  know  she  seems  all  you  say,"  he  agreed.  "  Yet 
have  you  ever  thought  that  it  may  all  be  the  surface, 


186  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

merely  a  shield  ?  I've  always  been  struck  with  some- 
thing unnatural  in  her  attitude  towards  people,  as 
though  she  were  governed  by  some  warped  idea  about 
herself.  She  professes  she  doesn't  want  to  marry. 
And  I  don't  think  it  comes  from  a  sense  of  superiority 
— the  new  woman  kind  of  stand  towards  men — but  as 
if  she  recognised  some  bar  to  marrying.  Do  you  know 
any  reason  why  she  should  feel  so?  " 

The  question  showed  that  he  had  been  thinking  a 
good  many  things  out  for  himself. 

"  Be  more  explicit,  Mr.  Harding,  and  then  I  can 
answer  you,  perhaps,"  Miss  Vanderhurst  returned, 
non-committally. 

"Well,  then,"  he  said,  "  I'll  put  it  this  way.  Is  there 
any  shadow  on  her  family,  any  blot  on  the  Eversley 
escutcheon,  so  to  speak,  something  of  that  sort,  to 
account  for  her  morbidity — I  can't  help  thinking  it 
that — about  not  marrying." 

"  You've  heard  gossip  about  them  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  have,"  he  acknowledged  frankly,  "  and  I 
want  you  to  tell  me  what  you  know.  The  truth  about 
it.  That  is,  if  you  don't  mind." 

Miss  Vanderhurst  moved  her  wrinkled,  white  hands 
impatiently.  "  I'm  sorry,  Mr.  Harding,"  she  said. 
"  It's  such  a  pity  to  rake  up  what's  past  and  over. 
Besides,  the  Eversleys  are  dear  friends  of  mine.  Yet, 
since  the  old  scandal  appears  to  have  cropped  up  and 
you  tell  me  how  you  feel  towards  Monica,  it's  best, 
I  suppose,  you  should  know." 


THE  QUEST  187 

"  Then,  it's  true  that  Miss  Eversley's  grandmother 

ri 

"  Yes,  she  was  Mrs.  Perdoe.  You  remember  the 
case,  I  fancy.  I  don't  suppose  a  more  sensational 
criminal  trial  ever  stirred  New  York  society  .  .  .  when 
New  York  had  society.  It  happened  about  thirty  years 
ago,  before  we'd  become  callous  about  such  things.  I 
must  say  it  was  very  hard  on  Lena.  She  was  a  beauti- 
ful girl — you  can  imagine  what  she  must  have  been 
from  what  she  still  is — and  was  just  about  to  come  out. 
Of  course,  it  finished  all  that.  Mrs.  Perdoe  enjoyed  the 
privileges  of  the  best  old  Knickerbocker  circles,  and 
was  a  brilliant,  worldly  woman.  A  marriage  had  been 
arranged  between  Lena  and  a  young  man  of  prominent 
family,  and  the  match  was  broken  off,  naturally.  It 
was  a  good  deal  later  that  she  met  Colonel  Eversley  of 
England.  He  fell  in  love  with  her  at  first  sight,  and  on 
his  death — a  year  after  the  marriage — Lena  came 
abroad  with  her  baby.  At  first  she  lived  in  rather 
out-of-the-way  places,  for  the  scandal  followed  her,  as 
scandals  will;  but,  at  last,  getting  tired  of  roaming,  she 
settled  here  in  Paris." 

Harding,  a  little  impatient  over  Miss  Vanderhurst's 
rambling  way  of  telling  the  story,  interrupted  her  to 
ask: 

"  And  do  you  think  Miss  Eversley  knows  about  her 
grandmother?  " 

"  I've  always  assumed  she  didn't,"  was  the  answer. 
"  Her  mother,  I  know,  has  tried  to  save  her  the  know- 


i88  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

ledge.  Yet  she  may  know.  Monica  is  strange  in  many 
ways,  and  not  at  all  given  to  confidences.  Lena,  I  am 
convinced,  believes  her  ignorant,  and  doubtless  her 
daughter  would  be  inclined  to  encourage  the  idea. 
I'm  sorry  there  is  not  more  congeniality  between  them. 
...  It  would  have  helped  Lena  to  face  the  world.  Lena 
behaved  very  bravely  during  the  trial.  She  stood  by 
her  mother  most  faithfully,  even  staying  with  her  in  her 
cell.  It  is  the  courage  she  showed  then,  as  a  mere  girl, 
that  makes  me  love  her  so  much  and  forgive  her  her 
little  vanities  and  passion  to  seem  young.  Life  began 
so  ill  for  her,  you  see;  she  never  had  a  chance  when  she 
was  really  youthful." 

''  But  were  circumstances  so  against  Mrs.  Perdoe  ?  " 
"  My  dear  boy,"  was  the  answer,  "  what  have '  facts  ' 
to  do  with  such  things.  You  know  when  people  are 
placed  in  certain  positions  the  damage  is  practically 
done,  and  no  amount  of  exculpation,  no  proofs  of  inno- 
cence, ever  much  help.  And  the  evidence  was  certainly 
terribly  against  Mrs.  Perdoe  .  .  .  though  the  jury 
acquitted  her.  Indeed,  few,  besides  Lena  herself, 
believed  her  guiltless. 

"  Mrs.  Perdoe,"  she  continued,  coming  to  the  story 
at  last,  "  had  been  left  a  considerable  fortune  by  her 
husband,  but  she  was  extravagant,  and  her  affairs  were 
in  rather  a  tangle  when  an  old  business  friend  of  the 
family,  a  Mr.  John  Adams — a  most  courtly,  delightful 
man,  by  the  way — died  at  her  home.  He  lived  in 
Boston  and  had  come  to  New  York  to  see  Mrs.  Perdoe 
about  the  payment  of  a  large  sum  of  money  he  lent  her. 


THE  QUEST  189 

He  was  sixty  about,  apparently  in  good  health  up  to 
the  time  of  his  visit.  It  was  warm  weather,  and  Mrs. 
Perdoe  gave  him  some  lemonade,  after  which  he  was 
taken  violently  ill.  There  were  several  people  staying 
at  the  house,  and  there  was  a  good  deal  of  testimony. 
Mrs.  Perdoe  insisted,  as  was  natural  enough,  on  being 
Mr.  Adams's  nurse ;  and  it  was  she  alone  who  adminis- 
tered the  medicine.  Instead  of  getting  better,  Mr. 
Adams  grew  worse  and  finally  died.  A  post-mortem 
examination  discovered  in  his  stomach  at  least  twenty 
grains  of  tartar  emetic.  Mrs.  Perdoe's  explanation 
was  that  she  was  in  the  habit  of  using  this  for  plasters. 
.  .  .  Her  chest  was  delicate.  It  developed  that  the 
bottle  of  medicine  left  by  the  physician  was  over- 
turned, and  Mrs.  Perdoe,  in  sending  a  servant  to  have 
the  prescription  refilled,  ordered,  at  the  same  time, 
more  tartar  emetic  of  the  apothecary.  It  may  have 
been  that  no  tartar  emetic  was  given  Mr.  Adams, 
except  in  the  lemonade,  and  it  might  well  have  been 
that  Mrs.  Perdoe  mistook  what  she  previously  had 
for  sugar;  although  the  paroxysms  of  vomiting  con- 
tinued. It  is  one  of  the  questions  about  which  the 
doctors — and  the  lawyers — disagreed.  I  trust  it  was 
an  accident.  Certainly  one  has  no  right  to  assume 
the  contrary  in  face  of  the  verdict  of  the  jury  that 
freed  her.  Yet,"  she  ended  slowly,  "  public  senti- 
ment was  always  against  her." 

"  And  do  you  think  her  guilty,  Miss  Vanderhurst  ?  " 

"  I  have  never  wanted  to  ask  myself  the  question," 

was  the  rather  chill  reply.     "  It  makes  no  difference 


igo  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

— it  never  made  any  difference — in  regard  to  my 
friendship  for  Lena.  My  sympathies  were  all  for  her, 
and  I  did  what  lay  in  my  power — it  was  little  enough 
— to  make  her  lot  brighter.  I  simply  tell  you  the 
facts  as  I  remember  them;  and  I  leave  it  to  you  to 
decide  whether  or  not  you  still  wish  to  marry  one 
whose  family  history  is,  to  say  the  least,  un- 
fortunate." 

"  But  I'm  not  thinking  of  that,"  Harding  answered. 
"  The  Eversleys'  past  history  is  nothing  to  me.  I 
haven't  asked  you,  Miss  Vanderhurst,  to  tell  me  the 
story  for  any  such  reason;  I  want  only  to  get  at  possible 
explanations  for  Miss  Eversley's  rejection  of  me  .  .  . 
why,  seemingly,  she  doesn't  want  to  marry  at  all. 
What  you  say  casts  a  new  light  on  her  treatment  of  me. 
If  she  is  aware  of  her  grandmother's  case,  then  it  is 
easy  to  understand  that  pride  would  have  made  her 
refuse  me.  The  night  I  proposed  to  her  she  had  just 
read  the  manuscript  of  a  new  novel  of  mine,  in  which 
I  used  a  situation  suggested  by  Percy  Colston — I  see 
now  he  must  have  known  of  the  Perdoe  trial — that 
rather  resembles  Miss  Eversley's  own.  It  was  a  study 
in  hereditary  influences,  and  I  confess  I  drew  pretty 
gloomy  conclusions.  Of  course,  she  couldn't  think  I 
modelled  the  plot  on  her  grandmother's  case,  aware 
that  it  was  her  case;  and,  indeed,  I  so  changed  things, 
had  so  few  facts  to  go  on,  it  can  scarcely  be  called 
her  grandmother's  story.  Yet  it  was  most  unfortunate, 
and  I  don't  wonder  she  refused  to  listen  to  me,  under 
the  circumstances.  There's  no  way  now  I  can  efface 


THE  QUEST  191 

the  blunder,  I  fear,  unless,  Miss  Vanderhurst,  you'll 
help  me  by  acting  as  intermediary." 

The  spinster  was  pensive.  "  I  don't  know,  Mr. 
Harding,  that  I  want  to  be  an  intermediary.  Still, 
I'll  have  a  talk  with  Monica,  and  if  I  find  out  that  she 
knows  about  her  grandmother  and  is  affected  in  the 
way  you  assume,  I  shall  let  you  know.  I  can  promise 
you  that  much,  any  way." 

He  saw,  from  the  way  she  regarded  him,  that  she 
was  trying  to  make  up  her  mind  about  it  all. 

"  I  like  you  the  better  for  feeling  as  you  do,"  she 
said  finally.  "  It's  nobler  than  the  attitude  of  poor 
Lena's  first  suitor.  Yet  I  can't  say  I  approve  of  the 
match.  After  all,  clean  ancestry  is  of  consequence  to 
everybody" — with  pride  in  her  own  unimpeachable 
forebears — "  and  even  if  we  choose  to  disregard  taint 
of  blood,  have  we  quite  the  right,  do  you  think,  to  pass 
on  a  heritage  of  shame?  You  care  for  Monica  now, 
but  should  you  cease  to  care,  your  opinion  as  to  the 
importance  of  such  things  may  change.  Such  re- 
flections may  well  have  caused  Monica  to  refuse  you, 
granting  it  wasn't  for  the  prosaic  reason  that  she 
isn't  in  love  with  you." 

"  But  I  think  she  does  care,  and  there  is  no  danger 
of  my  ceasing  to,"  he  said.  "  And  as  to  what  you  hold 
about  clean  ancestry,  how  many  of  us,  Miss  Vander- 
hurst, when  it  comes  to  that,  can  go  back  in  one's 
family  and  not  find  something  discreditable  ?  I'm  afraid 
if  we  were  too  particular,  marriage  would  go  out  of 
fashion.  I  can  only  assure  you  again  that  what  Monica's 


192  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

grandmother  did  or  didn't  do  can  never  alter  my 
feelings  for  Monica  herself." 

"  Well,  I  agree  to  do  what  I  can,"  she  returned,  after 
some  inward  debate.  "  But  I  warn  you,  I  hardly  hope 
to  influence  Monica  against  her  will.  To  be  frank, 
I'm  sorry,  irrespective  of  her  family  history,  your 
choice  has  fallen  on  her.  Monica  is  quite  fitted,  I'm 
convinced,  to  take  care  of  herself;  and  since  I  coiffed 
Sainte  Catherine  myself,  I  don't  regard  her  spinster 
resolutions  as  such  a  tragedy.  I'm  not  so  certain, 
Mr.  Harding,  that  marriage  with  her  would  be  the 
helpful,  solving  thing  for  you.  I'm  not  even  sure  you 
have  quite  the  temperament  for  marriage,  no  matter 
who  were  your  wife.  Yet  I  may  be  wrong.  And 
Monica  may  be  the  ideal  mate  for  you.  I'm  sure  I  hope 
so  ...  if  you  marry  her.  In  fact,  I'm  always  a  hopeful 
person,  a  believer,  you  know,  in  the  ultimate  happy 
outcome  of  most  things  in  life." 

"  Then  you  agree  to  be  my  ambassador?  " 
"  Yes,"  she  said,  with  a  little  sigh  over  it,  that  was 
not  in  keeping  with  her  last  statement;  "  I  promise." 


193 


CHAPTER  XIV 

MRS.  EVERSLEY'S  bedroom  suite  was  all  a  pretty 
woman  of  the  world  could  require.  The  chamber  in 
which  she  slept  was  large  and  well-lighted,  and  its 
mirrored  walls  offered  at  every  turn  flattering  reflec- 
tions of  herself.  Mrs.  Eversley  delighted  in  mirrors; 
she  consulted  them  as  a  priestess  consults  the  auguries 
of  the  gods.  She  was  never  lonely  with  this  multiplied 
company  of  herself — moving  as  she  moved,  smiling 
when  she  smiled,  paying  her  the  compliment  of  servile 
imitation. 

She  spent  most  of  the  morning  in  her  room.  Rising 
late,  she  appeared  downstairs  only  after  the  most 
careful  attention  to  her  toilette;  even  Monica  had  never 
seen  her  in  a  really  negligent  negligee.  Indolent  by 
nature,  she  pleaded  "  delicate  health  "  as  justification 
in  consuming  her  morning  hours  idly.  That  delicacy 
had,  happily,  taken  an  agreeable  form.  It  gave  a 
touch  of  fragility  to  her  figure,  augmented  youthful 
appearance.  And  it  was  the  preservation  of  this  charm- 
ing anachronism  that  most  mattered  to  her.  The 
bills  from  the  Institut  de  Beaute  testified  to  that. 
Likewise  the  innumerable  silver-stoppered  bottles, 
jars,  and  other  paraphernalia  of  her  dressing  table. 
Also  the  possession  of  her  expensive  maid — an  accom- 

o 


I94  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

plished  Frenchwoman,  somewhat  passee;  for  Mrs. 
Eversley  tolerated  no  rivalry,  in  either  servants  or 
guests.  Pretty  women  never  got  invitations  to  her 
dinners,  if  she  could  help  it ! 

Opening  from  the  bed-chamber  on  one  side  was  her 
beautiful  tiled  bath  room;  on  the  other  a  dainty 
boudoir,  which  had  been  copied,  at  Percy  Colston's 
suggestion,  from  Madame  de  Sevign6's.  It  was  into 
this  she  passed  after  rousing  herself  from  her  long 
Lady-of-Shalott-like  musings  before  her  glass,  to  glance 
over  the  Figaro,  for  its  fashionable  information,  dip 
into  the  latest  romance,  study  her  Paris-Parisien 
for  the  year,  or  indulge  in  correspondence  at  her 
secretary,  stocked  with  initial  note-paper  and  private 
pneumatiques.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Eversley  loved  her  private 
pneumatiques.  Thus  the  morning  passed  contentedly, 
without  ennui;  for  one  who  lives  for  oneself  can  always 
live  with  oneself. 

She  lay  awake,  on  the  present  morning,  enjoying  the 
twilight  dimness  of  her  wide  curtained  bed.  The  pain- 
ful effects  of  the  motor  accident  had  worn  off,  except 
for  some  feeling  of  ache  in  her  eyes.  She  had,  indeed, 
the  previous  evening,  felt  so  much  better  that  she  had 
ordered  Simone  to  wake  her  in  time  to  be  dressed  and 
receive  the  doctor  in  a  becoming  matinee.  The  doctor 
was  a  young  man  she  had  chosen  for  his  delightful 
sympathetic  understanding  of  her.  His  predecessor 
had  not  been  like  him.  He  had,  in  fact,  been  most 
brutal,  in  the  way  he  warned  her  against  the  pernicious 
effect  of  certain  cosmetics.  "  Your  beauty,  madame," 


THE  QUEST  195 

he  had  said,  "  is,  indeed,  '  a  fatal  gift.'  "    After  which 
she  had  summoned  him  no  more. 

She  wanted  to  rise,  yet  rather  dreaded  Simone's 
knock.  Bed  was  a  comfortable  place,  and  there  were 
so  many  things  to  think  about  as  she  lay  there.  Alas, 
not  all  pleasant  things.  Miss  Vanderhurst  had  told 
her  of  Percy  Colston's  reported  engagement  to  Miss 
Buttercup  Baxter,  and  the  news  had  made  her  so 
inwardly  spiteful  with  her  well-intentioned  informant 
that  she  had  made  a  complete  catalogue,  while  her 
friend  chatted  on,  of  the  latter's  personal  defects: 
the  grey  hair,  the  crowsfeet,  the  wrinkled  hands,  the 
spinster  figure.  This  news  had  cut  her  cruelly — cruelly 
as  some  of  Percy's  speeches.  The  loss  of  her  adjutant 
was  now  irretrievable,  she  told  herself,  and  she  needed 
him  as  much  as  ever.  She  couldn't  get  on  without 
him,  any  more  than  she  could  without  the  dangerous 
cosmetics  her  former  doctor  wished  to  ban.  She  needed 
him  for  her  dinners,  her  neglected  salon ;  she  needed  to 
consult  him  about  her  toilettes,  about  the  right  people 
to  know;  she  needed  him  to  tell  her  what  books  to  read, 
the  things  she  ought  to  say;  in  short,  she  needed  him 
for  everything.  He  was  like  a  drug.  He  wasn't  good 
for  her,  but  she  had  got  used  to  him;  and  the  things 
that  weren't  good  for  one — like  certain  table  delicacies 
she  couldn't  afford  to  touch — were  what  one  always 
most  wanted.  And  he  had  deserted  her  for  a  common 
American,  the  daughter  of  a  nobody,  who  sold  "  Sur- 
passing Ceylon."  She  could  hardly  credit  it.  But  then, 
everybody  loved  money! 

02 


196  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

Herself  included,  she  might  have  added:  but,  then, 
she  needed  money;  and  it  was  one  of  those  unpleasant 
facts  she  hated  to  face.  Only  it  was  getting  necessary 
to  face  it.  There  were  so  many  pressing  bills — bills 
that  couldn't  be  laid  aside — that  came  from  exigent 
tradespeople  without  proper  respect  for  those  who  had 
to  dress  and  live  up  to  fashionable  requirements. 
Bills  had  become  more  and  more  troublesome  as  she 
realized  she  had  long  lived  beyond  her  income.  Indeed, 
it  was  no  longer  income  that  she  was  living  on,  but 
capital.  She  had  drawn  liberally  on  it  for  years, 
without  thinking  of  the  consequences,  without  remem- 
bering the  day  of  reckoning;  it  was  all  very  stupid. 
"  Her  "  capital  was  how  she  put  it,  but,  in  reality, 
it  was  Monica's — the  fortune  Colonel  Eversley  had 
left  his  daughter,  and  of  which  she,  Mrs.  Eversley, 
had  been  made  sole  executrix.  Nothing  remained  now 
but  Monica's  money.  Monica  might  have  claimed  it 
on  arriving  at  age;  but  she  hadn't.  She  had  signed 
papers  and  left  her  mother  a  free  hand — and  Mrs. 
Eversley  had  been  very  free.  Besides,  Monica  seemed 
to  enjoy  supporting  herself.  ...  It  was  one  of  the 
queer  sides  of  her  nature. 

Yet  the  remembrance  of  it  all  made  Mrs.  Eversley 
uncomfortable  at  times,  now  that  she  drearily  realized 
that  she  wholly  depended  on  what  was  left  of  her 
daughter's  fortune.  It  came  as  an  afterthought;  as 
Monica  was  herself  an  afterthought.  It  had  aroused 
a  tardy,  sweet  maternal  solicitude  about  this  daughter 
of  hers;  and  the  solicitude  took  the  practical  form  of 


THE  QUEST  197 

trying  to  many  her  off  to  someone  sufficiently  rich 
not  to  want  a  dot,  who  might  provide  them  both  with 
a  pleasant  home,  in  case  she  was  compelled  to  give 
up  her  Neuilly  house.  She  had  really  been  most  self- 
sacrificing  about  Monica's  future,  since  in  encouraging 
Monsieur  Fernet's  suit  she  had  risked — and  lost — the 
friendship  of  Percy  Colston.  Of  course,  in  talking  with 
Monsieur  Fernet  she  had  had  to  allude  in  a  general 
way  to  her  daughter's  "  little  fortune";  but  he  was 
rich,  not  grasping,  as  French  suitors  usually  were,  and 
she  had  flattered  herself  that,  in  the  end,  the  question 
of  the  dot  would  be  got  over  somehow.  .  .  .  He  had 
seemed  so  much  in  love  with  Monica's  cold  statuesque- 
ness;  indeed,  it  was  quite  a  case  of  Pygmalion  and 
Galatea.  She  found  it  difficult  even  to  try  to  forgive 
Monica  for  not  being  coerced  into  the  match.  It 
really  was  very  selfish.  Why  Monica  refused  Monsieur 
Fernet  was  as  inexplicable  as  why  she  hadn't  listened 
to  Mr.  Nicolls.  It  was  quite  time  she  married  some- 
body. As  to  Mr.  Nicolls,  she  had,  it  was  true,  been 
glad  at  the  time;  there  hadn't  been  enough  money. 
She  regretted  it  now  in  a  way,  since,  as  it  had  after- 
wards developed,  the  young  man  would  inherit  one  day 
from  an  uncle. 

From  these  past  issues  Mrs.  Eversley's  mind  travelled 
to  the  present  one  of  her  daughter  and  Julian  Harding. 
Miss  Vanderhurst  had  confirmed  her  suspicions  that 
Mr.  Harding  was  in  love  with  Monica.  He  had  acted 
so  differently  of  late,  scarcely  came  to  the  house  any 
more.  He  wasn't  rich,  it  was  true,  but  Madame  de 


THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

Kansa  had  prophesied  that  he  would  make  name  and 
fortune.     And  she  believed  implicitly  in  Madame  de 
Kansa's  forecasts;  and  as  Miss  Vanderhurst  also  was 
sure  he  would  arrive — had,  indeed,  half  arrived  already 
— with  his  first  novel  selling  so  well,  he  seemed  not  a 
bad  substitute  for  Monsieur  Fernet.     How  few  girls 
had  Monica's  matrimonial  chances!     And  why  didn't 
she  take  advantage  of  them  ?     It  was  most  provoking. 
It  seemed  quite  an  irony  of  fate  that  she,  Lena  Eversley, 
so  worldly  wise,  who  planned,  calculated,  should  have 
such  a  disappointingly  unambitious  daughter.     Well, 
something  had  to  be  done.     Monica  must  be  made  to 
think  of  somebody  besides  herself.     She  was  so  incon- 
siderate, so  self-absorbed! 

Simone  interrupted  Mrs.  Eversley's  meditations  by 
bringing  in  her  tray  of  chocolate  and  the  morning's 
post.     While   Simone  let  in  the   light,   her  mistress 
tasted  the  chocolate,  and  vented  a  fretful  exclamation. 
......  What  wretched  stuff!     Simone  was  growing  so 

careless,  and  she  was  always  grumbling  about  arrears 
of  wages.  Servants  nowadays  seemed  to  have  no 
idea  of  the  kind  of  submission  they  owed  their  em- 
ployers. Mrs.  Eversley  pushed  the  chocolate  aside, 
and  took  up  her  letters.  Half  of  them  looked  like  bills 
.  .  .  always  bills!  She  opened  one  or  two  of  the  less 
dubious  envelopes.  Only  invitations  to  stupid  things 
everybody  got.  She  broke  the  seal  of  another.  Ah, 
that  was  different.  A  card  to  the  Austro-Hungarian 
Embassy.  That  was  select.  Few  Americans  managed 


THE  QUEST  199 

to  get  invited  .  .  .  and  how  she  hated  Americans! 
She  had  never  mastered  her  old  dread  of  them  and 
what  they  might  know.  Yet  the  worst  of  her  recent 
scares  was  the  night  of  Monsieur  Chelard's  premiere, 
when  she  was  persuaded  that  Percy  Colston  was 
whispering  her  story  into  the  Baroness  de  Chanzy's 
ear.  She  had  discovered  he  had  only  pretended  to — to 
make  her  uncomfortable  and  indulge  his  spite.  She 
had  got  him  to  promise  he  wouldn't  ruin  her;  and, 
after  all  she  had  done  for  him,  he  might  well  promise 
it.  He  had  been  very  nasty  about  it  though,  and  the 
things  he  had  said  had  caused  those  odious  tears  in 
the  carriage,  disfiguring  her  cheeks,  which,  alas!  she 
was  never  able  to  bathe,  particularly  not  in  tears. 
The  card  to  the  Austro-Hungarian  Embassy  elated  her 
a  little,  though,  unfortunately,  she  wouldn't  be  able 
to  appear  at  the  reception.  In  anticipation  of  the 
card  she  had  ordered  a  new  gown  of  a  new  maker, 
who  was  more  sensible  about  being  paid  some  day 
or  other  than  former  ones  she  had  dealt  with.  She 
demanded  of  her  maid  if  the  frock  had  come. 

"  Yes,  madame,  it  arrived  last  night." 

Simone's  manner  was  not  particularly  gracious.  If 
her  mistress  was  bothered  by  bills,  she  was  bothered 
by  a  lover  who  spent  her  wages  for  her  .  .  .  that  is, 
when  her  wages  were  paid. 

"  Let  me  see  it."  Mrs.  Eversley's  tone  was  like  an 
eager  child's. 

Her  serving- woman  fetched  the  box.     Mrs.  Eversley 


200  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

sat  up  in  bed  to  watch  her  undo  it.  She  was  reflecting 
how  well  the  gown  would  go  with  her  black  plumed 
Virot  hat. 

"  You  think  I  look  best  in  mixed  colours?  " 

"  Yes,  madame." 

The  gown  was  drawn  from  its  tissue  wrappings,  and 
Simone  spread  it  over  her  knees  for  her  mistress's 
criticism. 

It  was  a  charming  thing.  A  black-and-white  striped 
silk,  with  old  lace  and  knots  of  red  velvet. 

Mrs.  Eversley  studied  it.  "  Why  didn't  she  trim  it 
as  we  agreed.  I  hate  cottturieres  who  make  changes 
without  consulting  one.  If  she  disobeys  my  orders, 
I'll  go  back  to  Pasquier  and  Loisellier.  Besides,  they 
always  know  what  makes  one  look  young." 

Simone  smiled  disagreeably.  "  And  their  last 
account,  madame?  You  forget  they  said  that  they 
would  supply  no  more  dresses  until  you  settled  it." 

Mrs.  Eversley  sighed.  "  These  insufferable  trades- 
people. .  .  .  But  I  must  have  those  velvet  knots 
changed." 

The  doctor  arrived,  and  the  interview  left  his  patient 
depressed,  half  hysterical.  She  had  the  feeling  he 
hadn't  told  her  the  worst.  As  it  was,  it  was  a  tragedy. 
She  must  remain  in  her  room.  The  consulting  oculist 
whom  he  had  brought  hinted  she  would  have  to  wear 
glasses.  The  shock  of  her  fall  had  injured  her  sight 
rather  seriously.  He  used  some  strange  Latin  term 
dealing  with  refraction  that  made  her  shudder.  She 
might  not  see  things  quite  as  they  were.  Perhaps 


THE  QUEST  201 

that  was  why  the  velvet  knots  of  her  new  gown  looked 
so  ugly,  an  opinion  in  which  Simone  had  not  con- 
curred. The  optical  trouble  was  rare,  the  doctor 
remarked,  and  quite  interesting  from  a  medical  point 
of  view.  But  glasses  would  help  to  correct  it,  if  she 
wore  them  constantly.  Glasses!  She  thought  of  the 
horror  she  would  be  in  them.  It  was  the  end,  then. 
She  would  not,  could  not,  appear  in  public  with 
glasses  on. 

She  was  in  a  despairing,  irritable  frame  of  mind 
when,  later  on,  Monica  came  into  her  room,  after 
discreetly  rapping,  to  ask  how  she  was  and  to  offer  to 
read  her  the  Herald. 

"  I  don't  care  to  hear  it,"  her  mother  said  fretfully. 
"  What  is  the  use  of  knowing  what  other  people  are 
doing  if  I  can't  do  anything  myself.  Did  the  doctor 
tell  you  that  awful  thing  about  my  eyes?  " 

"  Yes,  but  he  said  that  if  you  wore  glasses  .  .  ." 

"  But  I  can't  wear  glasses,  make  a  fright  of  myself. 
I  should  be  ridiculous,  a  horror.  My  poor  eyes! 
How  can  I  endure  not  seeing  things  as  they  are." 

Monica  reflected  that  her  mother  never  had  seen 
things  as  they  were. 

"  I'm  sorry  I  spoke  of  it,  since  it  distresses  you." 

"  I  only  wish  you  never  distressed  me  in  any  other 
way,"  was  the  reply.  "  You  have  always  distressed 
me.  You  distress  me  now  by  wearing  that  old  black 
skirt.  I  hate  black.  ...  It  reminds  me  of  death.  I 
had  to  put  it  on  when  your  father  died,  of  course. 
I  respected  him,  and  his  sudden  death  was  a  terrible 


202  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

shock.  I  said,  as  I  looked  into  the  glass:  'This  has 
made  me  look  ten  years  older.'  And  it  had.  I  do 
wish  you  wouldn't  put  on  those  dull  things." 

"  But  I  don't  care  about  clothes." 

"  I  know  you  don't,  and  that's  why  you  look  so 
plain  half  the  time.  To-day  you  are  positively  homely 
.  .  .  pale,  worn  out,  and  I  don't  know  how  old.  You 
wouldn't  look  so  if  you  thought  more  about  your 
appearance.  No  one  of  our  family  ever  was  plain; 
we've  been  famous  beauties  for  generations.  And 
always  successes  in  society.  But  you're  so  different. 
I  don't  know  why  you  hate  to  go  about." 

"  Because  it  has  become  a  habit,  I  suppose.  You 
never  cared  to  take  me  out  when  I  was  younger. 
I'm  willing  to  leave  it  to  you,  who  enjoy  it." 

"  Pray  don't  try  to  put  the  blame  on  me,"  her 
mother  said  irritably.  "  You  know  you've  never 
cared  for  anybody  or  anything,  except  your  foolish 
art,  your  silly  charities.  If  you  only  had  the  interests 
of  ordinary  people.  But,  there,  it's  useless  to  discuss 
it  all  with  you,  you're  so  ...  so  impossible.  I  often 
wonder,  unless  it's  the  Eversley  in  you,  how  it  happens 
you  are  like  that.  Nobody  in  our  family  ever  was, 
I'm  sure.  We  always  cared  for  society,  never  thought 
of  earning  a  living,  or  teaching  odious  people  how 
to  do  things.  If  poor  people  can't  manage  for  them- 
selves, they  ought  to  starve.  I  detest  all  this  fuss 
about  the  lower  classes.  The  ones  to  sympathize  with 
are  society  persons.  They  have  far  worse  troubles 
than  merely  being  a  little  hungry.  It  encourages  the 


THE  QUEST  203 

masses  to  be  impertinent  and  think  themselves  as 
good  as  we  are.  Simone  has  grown  simply  unbearable. 
She  doesn't  care  how  she  massages  me  or  does  my 
hair.  You're  always  talking  about  '  sparing  my 
feelings.'  I  wish  you  would,  once  in  a  while." 

"  I  try  to  at  least." 

"  If  you  tried,"  her  mother  retorted  in  an  impa- 
tient, grown-up  voice  that  would  have  been  a  revela- 
tion to  Harding  and  others,  "  you  wouldn't  keep  me 
so  anxious  about  your  future.  As  though  I  hadn't 
enough  on  my  mind  as  it  is.  But  when  is  one  ever 
allowed  to  think  of  oneself  !  I  want  to  talk  seriously 
to  you,"  she  went  on,  allowing  her  daughter  to  arrange 
the  cushions  on  the  chaise-longue  where  she  had 
established  herself.  "  Tell  me  why  Mr.  Harding  has 
given  up  coming  here.  Have  you  quarrelled  with 
him,  or  what  has  happened?  I  know  there's  some- 
thing. I  remember  how  oddly  he  behaved  last  Christ- 
mas night  when  he  came  into  the  salon  to  say  good- 
night. Did  he  propose  to  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  was  the  reluctant  reply. 

"  Well  ?  "  Mrs.  Eversley  urged.  "  I  mean,  did  you 
refuse  him  ?  " 

"  Yes."  Monica's  voice  expressed  the  dislike  of  a 
reserved  nature  to  be  catechised. 

"  Pray,  don't  answer  me  in  that  yes-and-no  way. 
Why  did  you  refuse  him  ?  He's  a  well-bred,  agreeable 
man.  Madame  de  Kansa  says  he  has  a  brilliant  future. 
He  ought  to  be^able  to  support  you  decently  .  .  .  and 
much  more  than  that.  Authors  make  no  end  of 


204  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

incomes  out  of  books  in  America,  these  days — the 
successful  ones." 

"  All  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

"Then  what  has?  You  are  very  hard  to  suit,  it 
seems  to  me.  Mr.  Nicolls  didn't  suit,  nor  Monsieur 
Fernet.  I  wish  you'd  be  frank  with  me,  and  say  what 
would  suit.  I  get  so  tired  of  your  reticences  about 
everything."  Mrs.  Eversley  was  enjoying  all  an 
invalid's  privileges  to  be  querulous. 

"  But  I  have  told  you  often  enough,  mother,  that  I 
have  no  wish  to  marry." 

"  Yes,  but  without  giving  me  any  good  reason  for 
such  a  silly  resolve.  Is  it  because  you  think  yourself 
above  marrying?  You  fancy  yourself  very  clever,  I 
know;  so  much  cleverer  than  other  people.  Really, 
your  airs  estrange  one  so.  One  can  never  be  at  ease 
with  you.  If  only  I  had  a  sympathetic  daughter."  She 
sighed. 

"  If  I  haven't  been  sympathetic,  it's  because  I  never 
have  quite  understood  you,"  Monica  answered 
temperately;  for  she  had  learned  to  practise  self- 
control  in  talking  with  her  mother. 

"  That's  because  you've  never  tried  to  understand 
me.  You  think  me  vain  and  foolish.  You  look  down 
on  me  from  your  superior  heights.  You  imagine  you 
know  life  .  .  .  and  you  don't.  If  you  did,  you  would 
see  the  advantages  of  society,  of  your  youth.  Ah,  if 
only  I  had  your  chances!  I  assure  you  I'd  not  be  such 
a  fool,  as  not  to  make  the  proper  use  of  them.  You'll 
wake  up  some  day,  when  it's  too  late,  and  realize  your 


THE  QUEST  205 

mistake.  Something  has  to  be  done,  as  I  was  saying 
to  myself  this  morning.  My  affairs  have  been  going 
all  wrong.  I  have  had  severe  money  losses.  It's  been 
very  unfortunate  and  not  at  all  my  fault.  I've  managed 
the  best  I  could  on  what  I  have.  Really,  I  don't 
know  what  is  to  become  of  us,  after  awhile.  If  I  had 
not  been  so  true  to  your  father's  memory,  I  might  have 
married,  of  course.  But  it's  no  use  thinking  of  that 
now.  It  lies  with  you  to  smooth  things  for  both  of  us. 
You  owe  it  to  me  for  the  sacrifices  I've  made.  If  you 
married — Mr.  Harding,  say — you  wouldn't  need 
the  trifle  your  father  left  you.  Americans  don't  ask 
for  dots,  and  I'd  merely  use  the  income  of  your  money 
for  the  few  years  that  remain  to  me,"  and  Mrs. 
Eversley's  voice  became  pathetic.  She  added  with 
resignation:  "  I  suppose  I  could  somehow  get  on  with 
it." 

Mrs.  Eversley  spoke  with  the  confidence  of  one  who 
believes  that  the  most  improbable  statement,  if  uttered 
positively  enough,  disproves  any  self-evident  fact. 
It  was  the  method  she  adopted  to  support  the  fiction 
of  her  girlishness,  the  complexion  selected,  the  figure 
which  in  reality  outshone  that  of  most  genuine  ingenues. 
In  a  way,  she  got  to  believe  a  good  many  of  the  things 
she  asserted,  and  she  took  it  for  granted  that  Monica 
believed  them,  too.  She  did  not  know  her  daughter 
very  well.  She  had  put  her  at  school,  where  she  had 
forgotten  her,  as  she  had  forgotten  her  own  age  until 
the  embarrassing  fact  of  a  grown-up  offspring  forced 
it  on  her.  She  had  never,  however,  quite  credited  it. 


206  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

certainly  not  to  the  degree  of  carrying  Monica  about 
with  her  as  a  testimony  to  passing  time.  It  had  been 
inconvenient  enough  to  have  her  under  the  roof  which 
she  necessitated.  It  was  one  thing  to  flit  about  Europe, 
from  capital  to  capital,  from  one  friend's  house  to 
another,  as  an  engaging  young  widow.  Quite  another 
to  move  with  Monica  at  her  heels  like  a  serious, 
thoughtful  shadow. 

"  Yes,  I  shoulcV  think  you  might  manage  on  the 
income,"  her  daughter  responded,  after  a  moment. 
"  It  can't  be  so  very  small  an  amount  since  I've  never 
touched  it.  And  that,  of  course,  has  added  to  the 
capital.  However,  if  it's  that  which  troubles  you,  I  can 
relieve  your  mind.  You  are  welcome  to  the  income. 
I  can  go  on  doing  without.  My  tastes  are  not  extrava- 
gant, and  I  know  how  to  support  myself.  I  like  to 
work." 

Mrs.  Eversley  felt  a  touch  of  uneasiness.  She  had  the 
uncomfortable  idea  that  her  daughter,  generously 
indifferent  as  she  showed  herself,  might  not  be  quite 
pleased  if  aware  that  this  repudiation  had  already  been 
taken  for  granted,  and  the  accumulated  income,  to 
which  she  referred,  had  already  been  applied  to  pay 
for  her  mother's  toilettes  and  dinners,  or  the  expensive 
little  trifles  she  had  given  Percy  Colston  to  keep  him 
amiable.  Monica  had  such  a  difficult  way  of  looking 
at  things,  was  so  unnecessarily  nice  on  points  of  that 
sort.  Mrs.  Eversley  was,  accordingly,  rather  relieved 
to  escape  the  issue  by  taking  up  her  daughter's  last 
words. 


THE  QUEST  207 

"  Like  to  work !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  What  rubbish, 
my  dear.  A  young,  good-looking  girl  preferring  to 
grub,  when  she  might  marry  and  be  cared  for.  One 
might  think  you  had  no  family  or  traditions.  People 
owe  something  to  their  position  in  life.  I'm  sure  I've 
tried  to  live  up  to  mine.  I  can't  forget  my  mother 
moved  in  the  most  exclusive  circles.  Indeed,  I've 
often  wondered  how  you  can  look  so  much  like  her  and 
be  so  different." 

Monica  winced,  as  though  the  remark  struck  a  raw 
nerve. 

"  Don't,  mother,"  she  said  painfully.  "  I  can't  bear 
you  to  say  that .  .  .  that  I  look  like  her." 

At  the  shiver  of  repugnance,  Mrs.  Eversley  stared, 
thinking  her  daughter  was  under  some  misconception 
as  to  the  compliment. 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  why  you  can't.  Everybody 
thought  her  beautiful.  I  wish  you  had  half  her  charm. 
You  could  have  copied  her  and  not  suffered,  I  assure 
you." 

Monica's  eyes  darkened,  and  she  regarded  her 
mother  a  moment  in  silence.  She  had  patiently  listened 
to  the  other's  taxing  talk,  but  she  was  still  under  a 
strain  from  the  conversation  she  had  had,  the  previous 
day,  with  Miss  Vanderhurst.  It  had  left  her  disturbed 
in  many  ways,  and  she  had  passed  a  rather  wakeful 
night  in  which  she  had  lived  afresh  the  old  tragic 
issue  of  her  earlier  girlhood.  She  was  now  so  candid 
with  herself,  that  she  was  disposed  far  more  than  her 
wont,  to  be  impatient  with  her  mother's  deceits. 


208  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

Indeed,  Mrs.  Eversley  hardly  seemed  to  be  her  mother, 
and  she  surprised  herself  as  much  as  the  invalid,  grace- 
fully leaning  back  in  the  pale  blue  matinee,  by  saying : 

"  How  can  you  speak  of  her  as  you  do  ?  As  long 
as  you  don't  praise  her,  hold  her  up  as  a  model,  I  can, 
in  a  way,  endure  the  deception.  ..."  She  broke  off,  to 
add,  with  some  emotion,  "You  say  I'm  not  frank  with 
you.  Why  haven't  you  been  frank  with  me?  Do 
you  suppose  I  don't  know,  haven't  known  for  years, 
the  truth  about  my  grandmother?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

Mrs.  Eversley  tried  to  be  natural,  but  she  didn't 
succeed.  Her  voice  was  like  that  of  a  scared  child. 

"  What  she  was  accused  of  ...  about  the  trial." 

It  was  said  at  last,  and  Monica  felt  all  the  relief  of 
ending  this  pretence  of  ignorance.  She  had  felt 
much  the  same  in  her  talk  with  Miss  Vanderhurst 
When  she  saw  that  that  spinster  desired  to  find  out 
if  she  knew  of  the  family  skeleton,  she  had  said  that 
she  did.  She  hated  false  roles;  it  had  never  been  her 
instinct  to  fill  them.  Her  tone  in  conversing  with 
Miss  Vanderhurst  had,  however,  been  less  prosaic 
than  in  speaking  with  her  mother.  She  knew  the 
value  of  being  prosaic  with  Mrs.  Eversley. 

"  I  sent  to  America  for  a  report  of  the  case  .  .  . 
after  I  learned  the  truth,"  she  continued,  and  from 
her  manner  one  might  have  supposed  she  referred  to 
nothing  more  important  than  the  weather. 

It  had  its  effect.  Mrs.  Eversley's  fear  of  an  agitat- 
ing scene  subsided.  She  had  laboured  to  keep  the 


THE  QUEST  209 

disgraceful  knowledge  from  Monica.  But  since  Monica 
knew  .  .  .  well,  it  was  like  getting  rid  of  a  weight, 
almost  a  pleasure,  in  fact,  to  have  done  with  half  a 
lifetime  of  silence.  Here,  suddenly  and  unexpectedly, 
a  safe  confidant  was  provided  for  her. 

"And  who  told  you?"  Mrs.  Eversley  said  inter- 
estedly, sitting  up. 

"  Percy  Colston.  It  was  about  the  time  Monsieur 
Fernet  took  his  Prix  de  Rome.  Mr.  Colston  threatened 
to  tell  everybody  unless  I  pledged  myself  not  to  marry 
Monsieur  Fernet.  I  answered  that  he  might  do  as  he 
pleased;  but,  as  it  was,  I  had  no  wish  to  marry  Monsieur 
Fernet.  Later,  I  spoke  of  my  grandmother  to  Mon- 
sieur Fernet  .  .  .  told  him  she  had  been  tried  for 
murder." 

Mrs.  Eversley  had  got  no  further  than  the  fact 
that  Percy  Colston  had  told  of  the  blot  on  her  family. 
"  He  told  you?  "  she  cried.  "  After  he  promised  he 
would  never  mention  it !  And  I  trusted  him,  counted 
on  his  honour.  How  infamous  of  him !  "  she  went  on 
half  tearfully.  "And  you  were  nice  to  him  after 
that.  How  could  you — had  you  no  pride?" 

"  When  it  comes  to  pride.  .  .  ."  Then  Monica 
checked  herself.  After  all,  Mrs.  Eversley  was  her 
mother.  "  I  don't  know  that  I  was  ever  particularly 
nice  to  him,  as  you  call  it.  But  I  endured  him  because 
you  liked  him.  He  was  your  friend,  or,  rather,  you 
fancied  him  so.  I'm  not  sure,"  she  continued,  after 
a  pause,  "  that  I  minded  having  him  tell  me.  I  think, 
perhaps,  I  was  even  grateful.  He  thought  it  hurt, 

p 


210  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

and,  instead,  I  think  it  helped.  It  made  me  reflect 
about  a  good  many  things  I  should  probably  never 
have  considered.  Yes,"  she  ended,  as  though  im- 
personally weighing  it  all,  "I  am  grateful  to  him 
for  telling  me." 

"Grateful!"  was  her  [mother's  exclamation. 
"  Grateful  to  Percy  Colston  for  betraying  me,  for 
proving  how  false,  how  malicious  he  is!  How  much 
he  has  made  me  surfer!  Yet  I  didn't  think  him 
capable  of  telling  you.  And  you  speak  of  gratitude !  " 

"  Yes,  because  I  hate  deceptions.  I  like  to  have 
the  truth,  no  matter  what  it  costs.  I  often  have 
wondered  why  you  never  told  me  yourself." 

"  Because  you're  not  the  person  I  could  ever  confide 
in  ...  about  anything,"  said  her  mother  pathetically. 
"  I  kept  the  thing  from  you  for  your  own  sake  .  .  . 
just  as  I've  made  a  hundred  sacrifices  for  you.  I 
often  wanted  to  tell  you.  It  would  have  been  a  relief. 
You  don't  know  what  it  cost  me  not  to.  Think  of 
living  all  these  years  with  you  and  not  telling.  Yes, 
it  cost  me  a  great  deal." 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  can  understand,"  Monica  said 
gently,  after  reflection.  "  It  was  kind  to  want  to 
spare  me." 

"  I've  always  been  kind  to  you,"  Mrs.  Eversley 
cried,  with  a  little  wail  of  self-pity,  "  though  you 
have  never  appreciated  it.  I've  wanted  to  see  you 
married,  protected  from  the  world  that  has  been  so 
cruel  to  me.  My  heart  is  set  on  your  marrying  Mr. 
Harding." 


THE  QUEST  211 

"  But  I  can't,  mother.  .  .  .  It's  out  of  the  question," 
was  the  response.  And  Monica  sighed  wearily  at  this 
return  to  the  issue  between  them. 

"  You  mean  he  knows  about  .  .  .  about  the  shameful 
injustice  done  my  mother?  "  Mrs.  Eversley  sharply 
queried;  "and  does  not  wish  to  marry  you  now?  Or 
is  it  because  you  don't  care  for  him?  Tell  me  the 
truth." 

"  Yes,  he  still  wants  to,  I  think,"  Monica  said  hesi- 
tatingly, thinking  of  what  Miss  Vanderhurst  had  told 
her.  "  Although  he  knows  about  my  grandmother," 
she  added,  a  little  pensively. 

"  Well,  then.  .  .  ." 

"  But  it  doesn't  alter  matters.  ..." 

"  You  don't  care  for  him,  you  mean  ?  " 

"  No,  it  isn't  that  .  ,  .  that  I  don't  care." 

"  Then  why,  pray  ?  " 

"  I  have  my  reasons." 

"  Then  let  me  have  them.  Really,  I  get  so  tired  of 
you  never  speaking  out.  It  is  one  of  the  provoking 
things  about  you." 

"  But  it  would  only  wound  you." 

She  hesitated,  seeking  to  put  it  most  soothingly  to 
her  mother's  ear — 

"  Well,  for  one  thing  I  think  of  what  marriage  would 
mean  under  the  circumstances.  Mr.  Harding  himself 
might  care  enough  to  forget  it  all.  But  I  am  thinking 
that — that  if  there  were  a  child.  ..." 

"Child!"  her  mother  interrupted.  One  or  two 
tears,  escaping  her  eyes,  had  dried  on  her  cheek,  and, 

P2 


212  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

reaching  out  for  her  powder  puff,  she  removed  the 
stain.  She  was  beginning  to  recover.  If  she  dreaded 
the  old  scandal,  she  dreaded  more  the  effect  of  feeling 
too  much.  "  The  idea  of  you,  an  unmarried  girl, 
thinking  of  '  children.'  I  don't  know  what  to  make 
of  this  generation.  Girls  of  these  days  don't  seem 
to  have  a  sense  of  modesty.  It  comes  of  the  impossible 
books  you  read,  your  '  advanced  views.'  If  you  went 
to  church  and  were  more  conventional,  such  ideas 
wouldn't  enter  your  mind.  I've  always  lamented  you 
were  so  irreligious.  It's  one  of  your  great  defects." 
Mrs.  Eversley  believed  in  religion.  She  believed  in 
having  a  church — a  fashionable  one.  It  wasn't  chic, 
in  her  opinion,  to  do  without  a  God,  as  apparently 
Monica  did. 

"  And  what  '  circumstances,'  "  she  continued  indig- 
nantly, "  need  debar  you?  If  your  grandmother  was 
misjudged,  if  she  suffered  a  great  wrong,  is  that  a 
reason  for  speaking  of  her  in  such  a  fashion?  " 

"And  you  think  she  was  misjudged?"  Monica 
returned.  "I'm  sorry,  mother,  to  enter  into  a  dis- 
cussion about  it.  Yet  I  did  not  provoke  it,  did  I? 
I  have  no  wish  to  hurt  you  ...  if  you  hold  her  inno- 
cent." 

"  And  you  dare  hint  that  my  mother  was  guilty  of 
a  crime  ?  "  Mrs.  Eversley  exclaimed,  stirred  anew. 
"  Don't  you  know  that  she  was  acquitted  ?  Why,  she 
was  a  martyr,  a  victim  of  circumstances.  And  the 
jury  recognized  it." 

Monica   was   silent,    and   the   mother   viewed   her 


THE  QUEST  213 

irritably,  seeing  that  she  did  not  share  the  jury's 
opinion. 

"  You  don't  think  her  innocent  ?  "  Mrs.  Eversley 
insisted. 

"  No,  since  you  ask  me,"  was  the  reply.  "  She 
may  have  been  ...  I  don't  say  no.  But  it  is  not  how 
it  impressed  me,  after  reading  the  case." 

What  Monica  could  not  have  added  was  her  further 
impression  from  the  documentary  evidence  she  had 
sent  for,  that  Mrs.  Eversley  had  perjured  herself  to 
save  Mrs.  Perdoe. 

The  mother  smiled  bitterly.  "  How  wise  you  are ! 
So  much  wiser  than  the  judge  and  jury!  But  you 
never  knew  her.  If  you  had,  you'd  have  seen  she 
was  incapable  of  crime.  How  wonderfully  she  behaved 
in  court !  She  was  always  grande  dame,  my  mother. 
In  her  cell  she  was  like  Marie  Antoinette  at  the  Con- 
ciergerie.  She  endured  everything  in  silence,  with 
dignity.  She  never  once  complained.  But  why," 
and  Mrs.  Eversley's  voice  broke  into  a  sob,  "  do  you 
bring  it  all  up  again.  You've  never  suffered  as  I 
have.  You  don't  know  what  suffering  is." 

"  Yet  I  think  I  can  guess  .  .  .  what  suffering  is," 
was  the  answer.  Monica's  voice  was  gentle,  and  she 
put  out  her  hand  to  comfort  her  mother.  It  was  a 
little  awkwardly  done,  for  there  had  never  been  much 
exchange  of  affection  between  them.  At  the  touch 
on  her  arm,  Mrs.  Eversley  drew  it  away.  She  had  no 
wish  to  accept  comfort  from  one  who  doubted  Mrs. 
Perdoe's  innocence. 


214  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

"  Yet  if  you  have  suffered,"  Monica  said  after  a 
silence,  as  though  she  struggled  to  understand  things 
through  her  mother's  character,  "  how  can  you  so 
have  forgotten  ?  To  have  lived  as  you  have  done  . . .". 

"  And  suppose  one  remembered.  Don't  you  know 
that  it's  only  by  forgetting  one  lives  at  all?  Yet  I 
haven't  forgotten,  I've  only  tried  to  forget.  And  so 
you  blush  for  your  grandmother.  You  ought  to  blush 
for  yourself.  I  was  never  ashamed  .  .  .  only  I  did 
want  to  forget,  forget,  if  the  world  had  let  me,"  she 
sobbed. 

"  And  was  that  why  you  came  to  Europe  ?  I  think 
I'd  have  stayed  and  fought  it  out,  if  I  believed  in  her 
as  you  do.  What  have  you  gained  by  it,  mother? 
Sacrificing  yourself  to  Percy  Colston,  because  he 
knew  your  secret.  And  you  speak  of  forgetting." 

"  It's  easy  for  you  to  say  that,"  Mrs.  Eversley 
retorted  tearfully.  "  You  have  been  spared  it  all. 
You  haven't  lived  a  life  of  hateful  whispers  and  gossip 
wherever  you  went."  And  she  looked  indignation  at 
her  daughter,  who  could  sit  so  calmly  there  and  tell 
her  her  duty.  "  What  are  you,  after  all,  but  an 
ignorant  girl.  I  brought  you  up  to  please  yourself, 
flatter  your  vanity  with  high-flown  ideas,  spared  you 
everything  1  "  And  her  face  expressed  the  sublimity 
of  self-imagined  sacrifice. 

"  You  couldn't  spare  me  myself,"  Monica  said  half 
audibly.  She  spoke  rather  to  herself  than  to  her 
mother.  She,  too,  had  suffered  in  her  own  way. 
She  was  suffering  now,  through  the  weakness  of  her 


THE  QUEST  215 

heart.  The  memory  of  the  woman — who  had  been 
weak — in  The  Labyrinth  of  Life  was  with  her.  It 
helped — that  counselling  memory — to  a  mastery  of 
herself.  But  other  things  besides  the  book  had 
helped  her,  too.  She  had  long  schooled  herself  to 
suppress  emotion,  in  encouraging  her  head  to  rule  her 
heart.  Yet  there  were  times  when  she  almost  wished 
herself  different  .  .  .  that  she  might  not  see  duty  so 
plainly. 

Her  mother  had  not  heard  the  words,  nor  would 
she  have  understood  them  if  she  had.  She  was 
thinking  of  her  shadowed  girlhood.  "  I  was  about  to 
make  my  debut,"  she  said,  as  if  that  was  the  greatest 
of  her  disappointments.  "  Such  darling  dresses  as 
were  ordered.  But  I  never  put  them  on.  The  world 
shut  its  doors;  I  had  no  youth;  I  only  had  sorrows, 
disillusions.  I  was  jilted  by  the  only  man  I  ever 
loved.  I  don't  know  what  would  have  become  of  me 
if  I  hadn't  met  your  father.  Fortunately,  he  didn't 
know." 

"  Didn't  know !  "  Monica  echoed  wonderingly.  "  You 
never  told  him?  "  She  had  cherished  her  father's 
memory  for  the  nobility  he  had  shown  in  wedding  the 
daughter  of  a  criminal. 

"  If  I'd  told  him,  he  mightn't  have  married  me," 
was  the  answer.  "  And  it  was  an  escape,  I  came  to 
Europe  .  .  .  and  had  a  little  happiness.  I'd  be  happy 
now,  if  there  wasn't  all  this  trouble  about  money. 
You  think  it  doesn't  matter,  but  it  does.  You'll  learn 
that  some  day." 


216  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

She  spoke  truer  than  she  knew. 

"  I  can't  do  without  it,"  Mrs.  Eversley  continued. 
"  I  know  I  shall  never  manage  on  the  pittance  left  me." 

"  But  I  shall  work,"  her  daughter  said. 

"  And  what  about  things  like  these  ?  "  And  Mrs. 
Eversley  indicated  her  luxurious  bedroom,  its  mirrors, 
its  toilette  table  with  silver-backed  brushes,  filagreed 
phials  of  perfume,  the  hundred  little  utilities  for 
personal  use. 

A  vision  of  a  reasonable  existence  for  them 
had  come  to  Monica  almost  in  spite  of  herself.  But 
alas,  she  was  forgetting  that  it  demanded  that 
different  life,  a  different  mother.  "  Why  not  leave 
Paris  ?  "  she  asked.  "  We  can  find  some  quiet  place 
far  away  from  it  all,  where  there  are  real  things  of 
happiness  to  be  had,  instead  of  these  trumpery  pre- 
occupations. Think  of  the  kind  of  people  you  have 
gathered  about  you,  the  false,  paradoxical  talk  at 
your  dinner  parties.  It  is  all  such  irony,  mother,  surely 
it  can't  mean  much  to  you,  such  a  world.  You  say  life 
is  almost  over  for  you.  Has  it  even  begun  ?  " 

"  What  nonsense  you  talk."  And  Mrs.  Eversley 
stifled  a  yawn.  It  was  a  style  of  conversation  that 
always  bored  her.  "  Really,  one  might  think,  my  dear, 
that  you'd  stepped  out  of  a  book.  You  have  the  ideas 
that  one  might  expect  of  a  governess.  Bury  oneself  in 
the  provinces,  vegetate  in  a  Swiss  Pension,  do  without 
dresses,  society.  Why,"  she  cried,  enjoying  her 
indignation,  "  you  are  asking  me  to  give  up  what 
belongs  to  my  caste.  Yes,  I  think  you  had  better  read 


THE  QUEST  217 

the  Herald.  See  if  that  odious  Baroness  de  Chanzy 
was  really  dining  with  the  Duchess  of  Blackmore 
yesterday.  These  discussions  only  try  me  .  .  .  and  I 
hate  to  be  tried."  And  she  settled  herself  more  comfort- 
ably on  her  chair. 

"  I  ought  to  add,  though,"  she  remarked,  "  that  you 
are  a  singularly  unfeeling  girl.  If  you  had  any  heart, 
you  couldn't  treat  Mr.  Harding  as  you  do.  Julia 
Vanderhurst  tells  me  he  has  grown  cynical  and  dissi- 
pated, and  I  know  she  thinks  you  led  him  on.  You 
heard  yourself  what  she  said." 

"  Yes,  I  heard,"  was  the  hesitating  answer,  and 
Monica  took  up  the  Herald. 

"  Well,  I  shouldn't  like  to  have  his  ruin  on  my 
conscience,"  her  mother  observed.  "  And  such  a 
pleasant,  dear  fellow  he  is,  too." 

She  spoke  rather  sentimentally.  It  was  another  of 
the  sacrifices  she  had  made  to  her  daughter,  she 
reflected.  She  liked  Harding  and  had  enjoyed  their 
little  flirtation;  and  it  had  been  vexatious  to  be 
discarded  for  her  daughter.  Fernet  had  begun  in  the 
same  way,  but  she  had  found  that  the  sculptor  wasn't 
as  hesitating  in  actions  as  he  was  in  speech,  and  it  had 
been  difficult  in  his  case  to  keep  things  where  she 
wanted  them.  And  she  did  not  want  a  real  liaison,  any 
more  than  she  desired  to  marry.  In  that  she  had  been 
truer  to  her  late  husband  than  she  had  been  to  the 
more  serious  side  of  her  nature.  She  was  afraid  of 
marriage,  of  its  ageing  effects;  and  it  had  not  been  hard 
to  sacrifice  heart  to  beauty.  The  biggest  struggle  had 


218  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

been  Percy  Colston.  She  loved  him  as  much  as  she  was 
capable  of  loving  anyone;  and  she  believed  she  could 
have  persuaded  him  to  marry  her.  The  marriage  would 
have  been  a  mistake:  she  knew  he  was  selfish  and 
irritable,  and  she  would  have  constantly  made  him 
lose  his  temper.  She  seldom  lost  her  own,  but  she  had 
the  unfortunate  habit  of  losing  other  people's  for  them. 
"  Crabbed  youth  and  age  may  not  live  together  " — 
she  admitted  the  truth  of  Percy's  corrected  Shakes- 
peare. Yet  she  sometimes  sighed  over  Percy,  as  she 
sighed  now  a  little  over  Harding.  The  latter,  she 
thought,  had  not  shown  much  taste  in  preferring  Monica 
to  herself. 


219 


CHAPTER  XV 

HARDING  sat  in  the  Eversleys'  salon  wondering  if 
Monica  would  receive  him.  The  servant  had  been 
instructed  to  deny  her  to  callers  on  account  of  her 
mother's  illness,  but  Harding  had  insisted  on  sending  up 
his  name. 

The  salon  looked  sober  in  the  grey  afternoon  light; 
its  atmosphere  seemed  to  have  absorbed  something  of 
the  changed  sentiment  of  the  household.  It  was  as 
though  it  recognized  that  a  good  deal  of  its  usefulness 
had  passed  with  the  passing  of  Percy  Colston.  Eden 
left  to  its  original  simplicity,  after  the  exciting  Adam- 
and-Eve  episode,  may  have  experienced  the  reaction- 
ary insipidity  that  Mrs.  Eversley's  drawing  room 
appeared  to  feel,  on  the  present  February  day.  The 
hour  was  too  early  for  lighted  lamps,  too  late  not  to 
suggest  the  thought  of  them.  The  half  twilight 
depressed  Harding  as  he  looked  about  him.  The 
furniture,  that  had  tried  as  hard  to  look  old  as  Lena 
Eversley  tried  to  look  young,  was  a  duller  gilt  than 
usual,  as  if  it,  like  everything  else,  was  affected  by 
a  sense  of  mental  mildew  in  the  air.  There  was  no 
longer  any  appropriateness  in  being  bright,  alas, 
without  a  Percy  Colston,  and  other  epigram-minded 
visitors  to  make  Wednesday  evenings  seem  champagny 
on  the  frothiness  of  intellectual  small  beer.  Mrs. 


220  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

Eversley  was  lying  above,  afflicted  with  the  strange 
malady  of  not  seeing  things  as  they  were.  Perhaps  it 
was  Harding  who  did  not  see  the  salon  as  it  really 
was.  There  was  a  dampness  about  the  fading  day  that 
almost  warranted  the  insensate  chairs  and  cabinets, 
in  whose  venerable  character  Harding  believed,  feeling 
a  rheumatic  twinge  in  keeping  with  their  supposed  age. 
The  Clodion  Psyche — whose  affected  smile  had  often 
reminded  him  of  Mrs.  Eversley 's  efforts  to  please — 
looked  serious  and  sorry  for  herself;  as  though  she 
missed  her  Eros  as  its  owner  missed  her  Percy,  similarly 
lost  through  indiscretion.  Certainly  the  bust  appeared 
less  conceited  than  usual.  Harding,  glancing  at  it, 
was  reminded  of  the  bust  of  Buttercup  and  the  quarrel 
between  that  young  woman's  present  suitor  and  the 
past  suitor  of  Monica  Eversley,  Monsieur  Fernet. 

Life  seemed  to  be  one  complication  of  suitors,  none 
of  whom  suited.  For  instance,  Colston,  though 
accepted,  did  not  suit  Buttercup  but  only  one  of  her 
moods,  he  mused.  What  would  the  unsuitableness  of 
the  engagement  lead  to  ?  ...  A  rupture,  of  course,  in 
the  end;  since  the  poet  prided  himself  on  quarrelling 
with  everybody  in  time.  But  would  it  be  a  rupture 
before  or  after  marriage  ?  He  had  the  feeling  that  the 
engagement  was  a  consequence  of  ruptures  all  round. 
Colston,  having,  as  he  knew,  broken  with  Circour  over 
the  price  of  Buttercup's  bust,  was  probably  in  quest 
of  a  new  home.  Had  there  been  no  rupture  between 
himself  and  Buttercup  the  night  of  the  Opera 
masked  ball,  her  acceptance  of  the  poet  might  not  have 


THE  QUEST  221 

suggested  itself  as  the  afterthought  of  pique  he  was 
inclined  to  think  it.  Her  air  with  him  prior  to  the 
sudden  announcement  of  the  betrothal  had  been 
inconsistent  enough  to  warrant  him  in  that  flattering 
conclusion.  Harding's  thoughts  wandered,  like  his 
gaze,  from  the  Psyche  to  the  "  little  salon,"  but  paused 
there  only  long  enough  to  reflect  how  its  littleness 
suited  the  scenes  it  had  witnessed  and  to  which  the 
portiere,  now  oddly  limp,  had  been  like  a  drop-curtain. 
Would  he  ever  forget  the  jingle  of  its  rings  as  Mrs. 
Eversley  drew  it  shut !  It  was  behind  it  he  had  over- 
heard that  lady  practising  a  part  with  the  sculptor 
that  had  ended  in  such  sadly  unexpected  develop- 
ments. He  had  been  an  intruder  in  that  small  drama 
then.  Now  he  was  one  of  the  main  actors. 

Harding,  as  he  waited  for  the  servant's  return,  felt 
as  sober  as  the  salon  looked.  What  Miss  Vanderhurst 
had  told  him,  after  her  promised  talk  with  Monica, 
had  been  illuminative;  it  revealed  that  the  latter 
knew,  as  he  had  felt  she  did,  of  the  family  scandal, 
and  it  supplied  a  clue  to  her  behaviour  towards  himself 
and  the  world;  explained  a  great  deal  about  her  that 
had  puzzled  him.  He  could  understand  that  Monica's 
way  of  taking  the  fact  of  criminal  ancestry  would  differ 
from  that  of  ordinary  natures.  It  gave  a  new,  dignifying 
reason  for  her  sobriety,  and  modified  his  first  conception 
of  her  aloofness  and  air  of  the  superior  young  woman 
treating  others  to  Scotch  sermons. 

His  coming  to  the  house  to-day  had  been  preceded 
by  a  rather  bold  act;  and  on  the  way  he  was  sup- 


222  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

ported  by  the  belief  that  he  could  in  a  masterly  way 
brush  aside  the  cobwebs  of  complications  between 
them.  Yet  now  he  was  there,  he  was  less  certain  of 
himself.  He  had  the  feeling  that  the  conversation  he 
had  pictured  as  taking  place,  might  after  all  be  of  a 
different  character.  He  had  perhaps  too  much  counted 
on  his  attitude  towards  things,  too  little  on  hers.  He 
had  been  very  eloquent  in  the  imaginary  dialogue, 
she  quite  inept;  yet  in  former  arguments,  he  recalled 
as  he  sat  impatiently  waiting,  that  she  had  held  her 
own.  Still,  to  counterbalance  this  disheartening 
reflection,  had  he  not  in  his  left  breast  inner  pocket — 
the  place  for  it — a  letter  from  Monica  in  which,  practi- 
cally, she  confessed  she  loved  him  ? 

It  was  this  letter  that  brought  him  to  her.  It  was 
in  answer  to  one  he  had  written  her.  Before  he  received 
hers  there  had,  however,  arrived  a  telegram  bidding 
him  destroy  the  letter  unread.  Instead  he  had  broken 
the  seal  and  read  it  many  times.  He  had  done  this  after 
some  debate  with  himself  over  the  impropriety  of  dis- 
obeying her  command;  but  it  had  ended  in  a  decision 
that  he  had  the  right  to  know  the  contents.  Instinct 
told  him  that  within  the  envelope  lay  the  truth  of 
her  feelings  towards  him;  and  the  truth  about  them 
was  necessary  to  him,  to  their  common  happiness. 
A  woman's  letter  was  herself.  He  had  Maupassant's 
authority  for  that.  And  Maupassant  knew  women. 
Monica  might  deceive  him  by  mastering  her  exterior 
self,  by  treating  him  coolly;  but  in  the  prohibited 
letter  he  was  sure  she  had  unveiled  her  heart.  "  The 


THE  QUEST  223 

black  words  on  paper,  they  are  the  soul  all  naked," 
Maupassant,  in  referring  to  woman's  pen,  had  said. 
And  after  reading  Monica's  answer,  he  was  confident 
he  had  won  her  love. 

He  had  waited  some  time  before  he  heard  the  trail- 
ing of  her  skirt.  He  knew  it  was  she,  for  the  sounds  of 
her  movements  were  individual  as  other  things  about 
her;  her  step  was  sober  and  stately,  it  had  none  of  the 
frou-frou  of  her  mother's  frivolous,  half -floating 
advance.  The  dull  afternoon  obscured  the  room,  but 
there  was  enough  light  to  tell  him  that  her  face  was 
paler  than  its  wont,  and  not  auspicious  to  his  lover's 
errand. 

"  I  am  sorry,  Mr.  Harding,"  she  said,  as  she  shook 
hands,  "  but  my  mother  is  not  well  to-day.  I  came 
because  your  message  by  the  servant  was  so  urgent. ..." 
She  took  a  seat,  as  though  it  was  a  concession  to  polite- 
ness at  the  price  of  heart  discretion.  It  was  far  from 
the  nearest  one  left  him  to  select.  He  saw  that  she 
suspected  a  pitfall  of  some  sort,  and  nerved  herself  to 
avoid  it. 

It  looked  to  him,  in  truth,  like  a  case  of  Katherine- 
taming. 

"  I  read  your  letter,"  he  said,  without  prelude. 
"  And  after  that,  I  had  to  see  you.  Forgive  me  for 
insisting  ...  I  don't  want  to  seem  inconsiderate. 
But  I  couldn't  wait." 

"  You  read  my  letter  ?  "  she  echoed,  incredulously; 
and  her  eyes  lighted  indignantly  as  he  assented. 

"  Yes;    and  I'm  not  ashamed  to  confess  it.     Our 


224  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

happiness  depended  on  it.  If  I  hadn't,  I  should  have 
forgiven  myself.  It  was  my  right  to  know  the  truth. 
And  I  was  sure  it  was  there.  Nothing  now  can  take 
away  the  knowledge  .  .  .  that  you  care,  Monica.  You 
understand — I  had  to !  " 

She  disregarded  the  appeal  of  his  voice;  her  face  was 
hard.  "  But  the  letter  was  mine,  not  yours.  It  was  as 
sacredly  mine  as  though  I  had  never  sent  it.  How 
could  you !  " 

"  I  expected  you  would  be  angry,  of  course.  But 
I  resolved  to  risk  that.  Say  it  was  indelicate,  dis- 
honourable even.  .  .  .  Perhaps  it  was.  What  do  I 
care  about  that,  since  the  letter  gave  me  hope  ?  Do 
you  think,  when  love  is  at  stake,  that  a  man  can  destroy 
such  a  letter  unread  and  congratulate  himself  on  his 
honour?  The  only  thing  that  mattered  was  to  know 
how  you  really  felt  towards  me.  You  can't  deny 
now,  Monica — after  writing  what  you  did — that  you 
do  care.  And  that  is  why  I've  come.  I  want  you 
to  listen  to  me.  ..." 

"  But  I  don't  want  to  listen,  Mr.  Harding,"  she 
interrupted;  "  it's  for  you  to  listen  to  me.  Since  you 
read  my  letter — against  my  express  wish — you  shall 
know  why  I  wrote  it.  Miss  Vanderhurst  said  you 
were  wasting  your  life,  that  you  had  given  up  work, 
seemed  to  have  lost  ambition,  were  wretched.  Then 
came  a  letter  from  you,  saying  that  if  only  you  could 
feel  I  cared  for  you,  it  would  help  you,  no  matter 
whether  I  married  you  or  not.  So  I  answered  out  of 
impulse,  because  I  was  distressed,  because  I  wanted  to 


THE  QUEST  225 

give  you  what  support  I  could.  Then,  after  I  mailed 
the  letter,  I  realized  it  could  do  no  good  .  .  .  but  only 
harm.  Your  coming  here  to-day  shows  that  instead 
of  helping,  the  letter  only  made  you  more  unwilling 
to  accept  the  situation.  And  you  must  accept  it," 
she  went  on  resolutely.  "  I  cannot,  will  not,  marry 
you.  No  weakness  of  mine  can  alter  that.  If  I  saw 
my  mistake  before,  I  see  it  doubly  now." 

"  But  surely  you  don't  regret  giving  me  one  hour  of 
happiness  ?  "  he  remonstrated. 

"  I  only  regret  its  consequences  for  you,"  she  said, 
after  some  struggle  with  herself.  "If  it  really  could 
help,  I'd  be  glad.  Naturally,  I  have  no  wish  to  be 
thought  hard  and  unsympathetic.  Only  it  doesn't 
alter  my  reasons  for  feeling  as  I  do." 

"  Don't  call  them  reasons,"  he  broke  in  upon  her 
rebellious  admissions.  "  Why  should  you  take  the 
stand  that,  because  your  grandmother  was  charged 
with  a  crime,  you  must  be  sacrificed?  It  makes  no 
real  difference  to  me  if  she  committed  a  hundred 
crimes,  instead  of  merely  being  accused  of  one.  It 
doesn't  make  you  less  lovable  because  you  imagine 
yourself  under  some  shadow;  you're  more  to  me,  in 
fact,  because  you  have  suffered  through  what  the 
world  ought  long  ago  to  have  forgotten.  Besides,  it 
has  forgotten." 

"It  isn't  a  question  with  me  what  the  world  has 
remembered  or  forgotten.  It  is  what  I  myself  remem- 
ber. I  am  convinced  that  my  grandmother  did  commit 
the  crime  of  which  she  was  accused.  And  I  know  that 

Q 


226  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

you,  too,  think  it.  Do  you  suppose,"  she  continued 
after  a  moment's  pause,  "  that  I  don't  still  recall 
The  Labyrinth  of  Life  and  what  it  tried  to  prove? 
You  say  its  views  are  not  your  own,  but,  anyway,  it 
showed  what  they  might  have  been.  And  that  is 
enough.  If  nothing  else  kept  us  apart,  your  book 
would." 

"  But  I  have  destroyed  it !  " 

"  Not  the  memory  of  it.  Nor  what  it  evoked  .  .  . 
what  it  must  always  evoke  for  me.  I  am  not  a  child, 
Mr.  Harding  ..."  she  said,  as  though  in  the  assertion 
she  had  gathered  all  her  young  womanhood  together, 
"  and  I  am  not  so  ignorant  of  human  nature  as  not 
to  know  that  a  man  can  say  things,  under  the  emotion 
of  a  moment,  that  his  life  mayn't  prove.  You  say 
you  love  me,  and  I  think  perhaps  you  do.  Yet  any 
feelings  you  have  for  me,  or  I  for  you,  can  never  blind 
me  to  what  I  recognize  as  duty.  It  is,  I  know  it,  my 
duty  not  to  marry  you.  I'm  glad  to  think  you  care 
for  me — though  it  makes  me  unhappy.  I  oughtn't 
to  listen  to  you,  I  don't  want  to  listen  to  you.  Use 
such  arguments  to  women  who  only  feel  .  .  .  and  don't 
think.  My  protection  has  always  been  that  I  do 
think." 

\  "  You've  spent  your  life  thinking,  Monica,  instead  of 
giving  your  heart  a  chance,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  know 
how  old  you  are — I  doubt  if  you're  much  more  than 
twenty-two.  One  of  the  things  that  has  attracted  me 
in  you  is  that  you're  so  slow  at  getting  young.  Of 
course,  one  doesn't  really  begin  to  get  young  until 


THE  QUEST  227 

one's  thirty,"  he  said  lightly,  putting  it  discreetly 
at  that  age  for  fear  she  would  think  him  sneering  at 
her  mother;  "  but,  even  so,  you  ought  to  see  that 
nothing  matters  so  very  much  in  life  except  the  one 
great  cause  of  living — love.  You  told  me  once  you 
could  do  without  love.  Nobody  can.  Life  becomes 
hideous,  dry,  uneventful.  Be  sensible,  dear.  Forget 
grandmothers,  forget  stodgy  professors,  forget  me  as 
a  writer,  as  one  who  may  do  a  great  deal  of  wise  talking 
in  books,  but  who,  after  all — and  it's  the  side  I  ask 
you  to  think  of — wants  love,  as  you  want  it,  though 
you  refuse  to  say  so.  Feeling,  isn't  it  all  feeling  with 
us,  when  the  last  word  is  said?  " 

He  saw  that  the  eloquence  of  his  voice,  which  gave 
eloquence  to  his  words,  had  some  effect  upon  her. 
Still  she  said: 

"  But  feelings  go,  and  reason  remains.  It  isn't  just 
now;  it  is  the  years  to  come.  No  " — and  she  seemed 
resolutely  to  dismiss  the  prospect  he  painted — "  don't 
tell  me  what  I  owe  myself.  I  know  it  all  better  than 
you.  It's  new  to  you,  it  is  old — old  to  me."  And  in 
the  assertion  he  understood  what  the  years  of  know- 
ledge had  meant  to  her — those  years  in  which  she  had 
dismissed  Fernet  because  she  did  not  love  him,  and 
Nicolls  because  perhaps  she  did.  No,  she  wasn't 
young,  except  in  her  youth's  suppressed  unlogic. 
She  faced  him,  dark-browed,  a  sturdy  yet  pathetic 
image  of  renunciation. 

"  Monica,"  he  said,  "  don't  you  see  that  the  years 
would  bring  us  both  happiness  .  .  .  together?  " 

Q2 


228  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

She  stirred  with  the  resentment  of  one  who  feels  her 
defences  weakening.  "  You  talk,"  she  said,  "  as  if 
you  thought  me  a  sentimentalist."  She  had  lived 
with  the  type,  in  living  with  her  mother.  "As  if 
'  feelings '  were  my  one  absorption.  I  am  not  that 
kind  of  woman,  Mr.  Harding.  I  might  have  been 
happier  " — her  voice  faltered  a  little — "  if  I  were. 
Yet  I  don't  think  so.  People  lose  themselves  in  their 
feelings.  I  might  be  happier,  I  say,  if  ...  if  I  were 
like  the  woman  in  your  book.  But  I  am  happy 
enough.  I  have  my  brains,  my  energy,  my  will  to 
be  useful.  You  mistake,"  she  continued,  with  a  lift 
of  the  head,  "  if  you  fancy  I  am  in  want  of  sympathy. 
I  am  strong,  quite  strong,  to  meet  the  future.  And 
it  isn't  just,  I  know,  to  represent  it  as  you  do,"  she 
ended  proudly. 

"  Nobody  is  as  strong  as  you  claim  to  be,"  he  said; 
"  though  it's  true,  you  are  strong,  Monica.  It  is 
why  I  want  you  to  marry  me.  I  need  your  help. 
You  could  make  my  life  anything  you  chose;  I  am 
sure  of  that.  You  say  you  can  face  whatever  the 
future  may  hold.  If  that's  so,  why  c.an't  you  face  a 
future  with  me?  How  does  it  keep  us  apart  when 
neither  of  us  accepts  its  theories  ?  "  In  his  earnestness 
with  her,  he  quite  forgot  that  he  did  accept  its  theories. 

But  she  did  not  yield.  "  And  aren't  you,"  was  her 
response,  "  playing  with  a  theory  now,  as  you  played 
with  those  in  your  story?  The  theory,  Mr.  Harding, 
that  we  could  ever  be  happy  together.  It's  true  that  I 
don't  believe  in  what  the  book  held.  But  I  once  did. 


THE  QUEST  229 

It  was  then  I  resolved  that  I  should  never  marry.  You 
said  to  me  that  day  in  the  Bois,  you  would  like  to  know 
what  my  life  had  been ;  and  I  shall  tell  you  a  little  now, 
so  you  may  understand  me.  My  life,  I  mean,  since  I 
learned  about  my  grandmother.  For,  before  that, 
it  had  nothing  worth  telling.  Some  five  years  ago,  I 
first  discovered,"  she  went  on,  in  her  rich  quiet  voice, 
"  what  was  the  matter  with  my  mother,  the  cause  of  the 
strange  existence  we  led.  How  I  learned  the  truth, 
doesn't  matter.  It  is  the  fact  that  I  did  learn,  I  was 
still  young  enough  to  be  shocked  by  it  in  the  crudest 
sort  of  way.  How  could  I  have  fancied  such  a  thing  .  .  . 
my  mother's  mother  a  criminal  ?  I  did  not  want  to  ask 
my  mother  about  it,  but  I  resolved  to  know  all  there  was 
to  know.  So  I  sent  to  America  and  got  the  reports  of 
the  trial.  I  studied  them  carefully,  because  I  wanted 
to  have  the  truth,  irrespective  of  judge  and  jury.  And 
I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  my  grandmother — 
notwithstanding  the  verdict — was  guilty;  that  the 
evidence  proved  it.  Thinking  about  it,  I  said  to  myself, 
that  people  do  not  do  such  things  from  mere  impulse 
of  temptation.  That  the  causes  of  such  crime  lie  deeper, 
come  from  a  soul  and  mind  radically  wrong.  It  was  a 
question  of  moral  disease." 

She  drew  her  breath  sharply,  as  though  she  lived 
again  through  something  of  those  past  emotions. 

"  I  revolted  against  such  a  hateful  heritage,  suffered 
from  the  thought  of  it.  It  seemed  cruel  of  life  to  have 
thrust  it  on  me.  That  many  people  knew,  that  others 
suspected,  never  mattered  as  much,  for  I  had  already 


230  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

learned  to  depend  on  myself  " — and  he  guessed  her 
mother's  neglect  to  be  a  part  of  that  schooling — "  and 
I  already  had  found  interests  outside  of  society.  No, 
it  was  my  sense  of  personal  stain  ...  of  having  criminal 
blood  in  my  veins ;  that  was  what  I  resented  most,  what 
was  so  hard  to  get  over.  And  it  was  then  I  vowed  to 
myself  I  should  not  marry.  One  has  no  right  to  cause 
suffering  for  others." 

She  seemed  to  expect  an  assent  to  this;  but  he  held 
himself  in  reserve,  following  her  recital  to  seize  on  its 
weakness  when  his  moment  for  argument  should  come. 

"  Then  I  began  to  recover,  as  one  recovers  from  an 
illness  of  body.  Intelligence  came  to  the  rescue.  I 
told  myself  that  inherited  taint  could  be  combated  like 
everything  else.  Nature  is  too  fair  to  deny  us  the 
strength  to  struggle  against  what  is  abnormal  or  vicious 
in  us.  And  so  I  got  back  self-respect  at  last.  My  life 
had  been  an  effort  to  overcome  any  wrong  instinct  that 
may  have  been  passed  down  to  me.  But  I  still  feel 
bound  to  keep  the  earlier  promise  I  made,  when 
weighed  down  by  my  heredity.  It  may  be  illogical, 
mere  sentiment,  in  a  way;  but  whatever  it  is,  it  is 
sacred  to  me.  And,"  she  ended,  with  a  dignity  that 
moved  him,  "  you  will  not  ask  me  to  break  it,  I  know." 

"  But,  Monica,"  he  said,  catching  her  hand,  "  don't 
you  see  the  wrong  you  do  yourself  by  the  confession.  If 
you  didn't,  at  heart,  still  hold  the  views  you  deny,  you 
wouldn't  remember  such  a  pledge.  I,  too,  have  my 
ill-heritages  ...  or  say  they  are  weaknesses  of  my  own 
fostering,  if  you  prefer.  But,  however  that  may  be,  I 


THE  QUEST  231 

ought  to  fight  them  .  .  .  and  I  will  fight  them,  if  you  will 
help.  !  And  you  can  only  help  by  marrying  me,  Monica. 
Why  not  fight  these  things  together?  You  must  see 
how  much  I  need  you.  Don't  tell  me  that  promises  are 
more  to  you  than  my  happiness,  my  good.  Have 
faith  in  me  and  what  life  together  might  give  us.  Your 
confidence  in  me  will  restore  my  own." 

"  Oh,  why  will  you  ask  it,"  she  cried,  as  he  drew  her 
to  him.  "  You,  who  never  found  happiness  for  your- 
self, how  can  you  find  it  for  me  ?  " 

"  Because  there  is  no  happiness  that  isn't  found 
together,"  he  answered. 

"  If  only  you  were  stronger,"  she  whispered,  brokenly, 
yielding  to  his  kiss.  "  For  I  am  a  woman  . . .  who  wants 
to  be  led." 

"  We  shall  lead  each  other.  Or,  rather,  love  shall 
lead  us.  That  is  best  of  all." 


BOOK  II.  THE  TEST 


Book  II:  The  Test 

CHAPTER  I 

"  To  see  Rothenbourg,  to  love  in  Venice,"  was  a  bit  of 
fashionable  counsel  that  Harding  had  wished  to  apply 
after  his  marriage  the  previous  June.  He  and  Monica 
had  meant  to  stay  in  the  old  Bavarian  town  only  a  day 
or  two,  "  to  see  it  " ;  but  akeady  the  Tauber  valley  was 
slipping  on  its  Nessus  shirt  of  burning  foliage,  and 
Harding  had  grown  restless.  He  wanted  to  follow  the 
storks,  that  were  abandoning  their  nests  on  the  tiled 
archways  to  go  where  perpetual  summer  reigned. 
Somehow  he  hated  the  thought  of  autumn.  Not  that 
he  was  unhappy,  nor  that  he  questioned  happiness  in 
the  future.  Nothing  had  marred  his  four  months  of 
married  life.  It  was,  perhaps,  that  he  had  been,  if 
anything,  too  content,  and  summer  had  symbolized  it. 

At  all  events,  he  was  tired  of  Rothenbourg;  he 
wanted  to  travel  now,  as  much  as  before  he  had  argued 
to  remain  and  rent  the  old  little  hunting-lodge,  called 
the  "  Kaiserschlossen,"  lying  outside  the  town,  which 
haply  had  been  offered  for  the  season  by  some  artist 
friends  of  Monica's.  It  had  charmed  him  to  think  of 
trying  for  awhile  this  picturesque,  irresponsible  house- 
keeping in  the  tumble-down  landmark  of  other  days. 
The  experiment  could  hardly  be  called  a  failure,  in 
spite  of  the  small  domestic  tragedies  it  involved;  there 


236  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

had  been  a  touch  of  romance  in  it  all.  But  Harding 
had  outlived  the  whim.  Besides,  it  was  to  be  his 
wander  year,  in  which  to  recover  health — for  he  had 
suffered  during  the  past  spring  from  a  bronchial  attack 
— and  to  acquire  experience  and  material  for  work.  It 
excused  him  and  Monica  for  leaving  Mrs.  Eversley,  still 
in  a  somewhat  invalidic  state,  especially  as  Miss  Van- 
derhurst  had  agreed  to  companion  her  during  their 
absence;  reports  from  that  admirable  spinster  had 
continued  to  be  reassuring,  so  the  two  had  no  reason  to 
reproach  themselves  for  lack  of  duty  to  "  dear  Lena," 
as  Miss  Vanderhurst  always  called  her  old  friend. 

Leaving  Paris  had  meant,  too,  to  Harding,  leaving 
old  past  states  of  mind,  all  the  misery  and  tangle  of 
his  former  life.  He  was  wedded  to  the  woman  he 
had  desired;  he  was  enjoying  fairly  easy  circum- 
stances; his  literary  prospects  were  bright — the  success 
of  The  Horns  of  the  Altar  was  a  proof  that  he  could 
depend  on  his  pen,  free  from  former  harassing  condi- 
tions; and  if  the  years  of  strain,  and  some  months  of 
reckless  pleasure-seeking,  had  a  little  told  on  his  con- 
stitution, it  would  only  be  a  question  of  time  until 
he  was  sound  again  in  body  and  mind.  He  was  sur- 
prised how,  already,  the  old  melancholy  of  spirits 
had  been  dissipated;  and  he  told  himself  that  much 
of  what  he  had  attributed  to  convictions  of  philosophy 
lay  in  unsatisfactory  bachelorhood,  in  living  alone  and 
selfishly.  Marriage  had  a  tranquillising  effect;  every- 
thing seemed  to  dispose  him  to  see  things  as  he  had 
sworn  to  Monica  he  really  did  see  them.  He  felt 


THE  TEST  237 

there  was  no  reason  to  confess  that,  in  a  way,  he  had 
deceived  her  in  repudiating  his  book,  in  claiming  to 
be  an  optimist  at  heart.  It  had  not  been  true  then, 
when  he  had  proposed  to  her,  but  it  was  true  now. 
Why  disturb  the  faith  she  had  had  in  him,  the  faith 
she  continued  to  repose  in  him?  It  was  very  sweet 
that  she  should  believe  so  completely,  should  take  him 
wholly  for  granted,  should  picture  him  already  as  far 
on  the  road  to  attaining  her  own  reasoned  feelings 
about  existence. 

He  was  only  just  beginning  to  know  her,  after  these 
quickly  passed  months  of  marriage.  The  failure  of 
her  rejected  lovers  has  been,  perhaps,  in  their  holding 
that  she  needed  them.  His  success  had  been  that  he 
needed  her.  And  it  was  his  effort  to  prove  that  he 
really  did  need  her,  to  show  that  his  happiness  and 
welfare  depended  on  her  help  and  love  for  him. 

He  continually  told  himself  how  satisfied  he  was 
with  the  love  Monica  gave  him.  True,  it  was  not 
quite  the  kind  of  love  he  had  dreamed  of  in  his  youth. 
In  old,  overburdened  New  York  days,  hearing  Tristan 
and  Isolde  from  cheap  gallery  seats  at  the  Metropolitan 
he  had  recognized  what  capacity  lay  deep  in  his  heart 
for  some  such  passionate,  reckless  love.  As  the 
music  sang  into  his  nerves,  burnt  his  sight  with  blur 
of  tears,  he  had  felt  the  answering  cry  arise  in  the 
exaltation  of  the  hour.  That  was  what  he  craved,  the 
utmost  of  feeling,  one  infinite  breath  of  abandonment 
and  divine  life  of  heart,  and  for  it  he  would  gladly 
pay  the  price.  It  was  what  he  had  dreamed;  and 


238  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

Monica  was  the  reality.  There  was  nothing  of  the 
Isolde  about  her.  He  had  not  cried  for  her  as  Tristan, 
as  the  whole  passionate  waves  of  the  orchestra  break- 
ing like  a  foam-fraught  sea  on  the  audience  had  cried, 
"Isolde,"  until  it  was  almost  more  than  any  heart  could 
bear.  But  he,  too,  was  the  reality.  The  Tristan  in 
him  was  only  of  the  hour  of  such  glorious  glimpses 
into  heart-emotions.  With  the  music  faded  from  his 
soul,  seated  again  at  the  drudgery  of  his  desk,  there 
seemed  little  in  him  that  warranted  such  a  gift  from 
life.  And  Monica,  for  all  her  contained  nature,  for 
all  the  maternal  side  of  her  love,  had  shown  that  her 
quiet  feelings  were  deep.  Her  qualities  were  restful, 
compensating  things,  and  he  was  content  with  them. 
He  would  be  an  ingrate  not  to  be  content.  .  .  . 

Monica,  too,  had  had  her  dreams.  She  had  not 
desired  a  Tristan  as  Harding  had  desired  an  Isolde; 
but  her  heart  had  conceived  a  very  different  type  of 
lover  from  Julian:  a  man  whose  strength  was  greater 
than  her  own,  who  would  do  the  "  leading  "  which  had 
been  her  cry  in  her  troubled  and  unwilling  surrender. 
As  she  had  then  confessed,  she  was,  after  all,  "a 
woman,"  with  a  woman's  instinct  of  dependence,  in 
spite  of  the  hardening  fortitude  of  her  nature  which 
accident  had  fostered.  It  was  no  inconsistency  of  sex 
that  had  caused  her  to  yield.  She  could  have  with- 
stood the  pleading  of  her  heart  well  enough.  But 
she  had  had  a  vision  of  a  black  sea,  with  a  hand 
stretched  out  to  her.  A  shipwrecked  character  had 
asked  to  be  saved;  and  she  could  not  resist  the  appeal. 


THE  TEST  239 

She  had  not  thought  of  the  consequences  to  herself; 
had  not  stepped  to  reflect  that  the  involuntary  act 
might  involve  her  own  safety,  that  sometimes  the 
clutch  of  the  drowning  draws  down  the  would-be 
saviour. 

Now  that  she  had  taken  irrevocable  pledges,  she 
told  herself,  as  Harding  was  telling  himself,  that  she 
was  content.  Her  love  and  care  had  already,  it 
seemed,  done  her  husband  good.  He  was  healthier  in 
mind  and  body;  he  spoke  sanguinely  of  the  future,  was 
full  of  plans  for  work,  interested  in  travel,  and  he 
had  not  expressed  regret,  as  she  sometimes  feared  he 
might,  at  having  destroyed  The  Labyrinth  of  Life. 
She  had  not  wanted  him  to  do  it  for  her  sake,  but  for 
his  own,  and  he  had  assured  her  it  was  for  his  own. 
In  a  way  it  might  seem  a  little  thing,  but  it  involved 
the  question  of  conscience — what  an  artist  owed  to 
himself  and  to  others.  To  her  the  philosophy  of  the 
book  was  pernicious:  she  had  conceived  of  it  as  injur- 
ing lives,  depriving  people  of  courage,  and  in  her 
opinion  to  sow  broadcast  on  the  world  insincere  and 
hurtful  ideas  was  to  ignore  human  responsibilities,  to 
misuse  talent.  But  she  was  enough  the  artist  to 
realize  what  the  sacrifice  was:  to  cast  the  produce  of 
one's  brain  into  the  waste  basket,  to  kill  what  one  had 
made  live,  even  if  it  were  unworthy ;  and  she  honoured 
Julian  for  the  heroism,  although  she  honoured  him 
more  for  what  underlay  the  heroism.  It  had  shown 
her  he  was  worthy  of  being  loved.  With  that  proof 
of  the  finer  side  of  his  characters  he  might  well  be 


240  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

patient,  while  waiting  for  all  that  must  eventually 
follow,  the  step  by  step  whereby  he  would  attain 
at  last  the  high,  reasonable  plane  of  living  on  which 
she  herself  endeavoured  to  move. 

So  the  months  passed,  and  the  next  Spring  came, 
finding  them,  after  much  shift  of  places,  at  the  Hotel 
des  Palmes,  in  the  old  Sicilian  capital.  It  was  almost 
a  year  now  since  their  marriage,  a  lotus-eating  year, 
and  Monica  was  beginning  to  hope  that  Julian  would 
soon  have  had  enough  of  travel  and  settle  down  to  a 
soberer,  more  useful  existence. 


241 


CHAPTER  II 

ON  a  calm  purple  day  the  two  undertook  an  excursion 
up  Monte  Pellegrino.  The  white  Spring  sunshine 
blazed  on  bare  yellow  rocks  and  wrung  the  odours  out 
of  weed  and  flower  tufting  the  chasm-cleft  mountain- 
side. Monica,  for  whom  Harding  had  hired  a  donkey, 
seemed  disinclined  to  talk;  and  he,  walking  beside  her 
up  the  zigzagging  viaduct,  shared  her  thoughtful 
silence.  Murmurs  stole  from  the  plain  below,  but  so 
faint,  drowned  by  distance,  that  they  only  emphasized 
a  sense  of  remoteness  from  the  world.  As  the  road 
climbed  they  had  wider  glimpses  of  the  Conco  d'Oro: 
grey-green  expanses  of  olives,  in  the  wilderness  of 
which  twinkled  white  villas  of  wealthy  Palmerians; 
farther,  rose  the  domes  and  minarets  of  the  Sicilian 
capital  by  the  blue  sea,  all  shrouded  in  tender  opales- 
cence. 

Half-way  up  the  mountain  Harding  espied  some 
gorse  that  the  Spring  warmth  had  called  into  golden 
blossom. 

"  See,"  he  said,  showing  his  wife  the  sprig  he  had 
plucked,  "  the  genista  of  Leopardi.  It's  the  /lore 
di  deserto  of  his  famous  poem.  You  remember  the 
idea  was  suggested  by  seeing  the  plant  growing  on 
the  crater  of  Vesuvius.  It  sums  up  his  philosophy  of 
life,  won  him  the  name  of  '  Poet  of  Pessimism.'  Listen 

R 


242  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

to  this."  He  read  some  of  the  lines  from  the  volume 
of  Leopardi  he  had  picked  up  that  morning  at  a 
bookstall  of  the  Via  Macqueda. 

"  That  is  a  poem  which  should  never  have  been 
given  to  the  world,"  Monica  observed  when  he  stopped, 
"  whatever  personal  wretchedness  may  have  inspired 
it.  I  remember  reading  once  how  his  publisher 
begged  him  not  to  print  it  for  the  sake  of  the  young 
patriots  whom  it  might  rob  of  courage  at  a  juncture 
when  Italy  needed  their  utmost  effort.  But  Leopardi 
thought  of  his  own  fame,  not  of  the  political  crisis 
his  country  had  to  face.  He  should  have  done  as  you 
did,  Julian,  with  The  Labyrinth  of  Life — destroyed  it. 
Those  who  preach  the  doctrine  of  despair  abuse  their 
talents." 

It  was  the  second  time  since  their  marriage  that 
Monica  had  alluded  to  the  manuscript  as  destroyed. 
On  the  first  occasion  Harding's  conscience  had  twinged 
him.  After  his  talk  with  Monica  about  The  Labyrinth 
of  Life  he  had  gone  back  to  his  room  and  rather  grimly 
burned  the  manuscript — an  act  of  sacrifice  that  at 
the  moment  satisfied  his  mood.  Only,  much  later, 
when  packing  to  leave  for  Italy,  he  found  the  original 
rough  copy  from  which  the  one  Monica  had  seen  had 
been  typed.  It  is  not  human  nature  to  be  heroic  at 
all  times;  it  was  a  shock  to  discover  that  his  sacrifice 
had  not  been  complete,  but  he  could  not  nerve  himself 
to  completeness  at  that  particular  moment.  He 
therefore  tossed  the  bundle  of  papers  into  a  spare 
trunk  with  books  and  other  things,  which  he  stored 


THE  TEST  243 

in  Paris.  He  wondered  if  he  should  not  now  tell 
Monica;  but  there  was  a  drawn,  tired  look  in  her  face 
which  made  him  hesitate  for  her  sake. 

He  put  the  flower  between  the  pages  of  the  book, 
which  he  restored  to  his  pocket.  Monica's  gaze 
rested  on  his  brooding  face;  she  showed  uneasiness 
and  disappointment.  Harding  suddenly  shook  off 
his  mood  and  smiled  at  her  to  dispel  the  atmosphere 
he  had  provoked  between  them.  How  seriously  she 
took  everything!  She  made  no  allowances  for  tem- 
peraments more  elastic  than  her  own. 

"  Forgive  me,"  he  said  in  a  different  tone,  "  I'm 
spoiling  your  afternoon.  I  am  out  of  sorts  to-day." 

A  turn  in  the  road  brought  them  in  sight  of  the 
mountain  shrine  of  Santa  Rosalia,  the  patron  saint  of 
Palermo.  They  left  the  donkey  with  the  asino  who 
acted  as  their  guide,  and,  ringing  the  convent  bell 
that  summoned  a  monk  to  the  portal,  they  were 
conducted  to  the  grotto  chapel. 

As  they  made  their  way  along  the  cool,  stone-flagged 
corridors  they  could  hear  the  muffled  sounds  of  a  Gre- 
gorian chant.  The  chapel  was  in  half  gloom.  They 
barely  made  out  the  fantastic  vault  of  stalactites,  the 
constant  drip  from  which  was  carried  off  by  a  maze 
of  lead  pipes.  Candles  twinkled  on  the  altar,  before 
which  knelt  some  dozen  of  worshippers.  They  paused 
in  the  background  until  the  services  were  over. 

When  the  black-garbed  monks  had  filed  out  of  the 
strange  sanctuary,  they  approached  the  glass-protected 
shrine  of  the  Saint.  It  was  a  sculptured  figure  of  a 

R3 


244  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

young  woman,  covered  with  votive  jewellery,  repre- 
sented as  asleep,  while  an  angel,  a  lily  in  his  hand, 
bent  over  her.  In  the  mystic  obscurity  of  the  chapel 
there  was  something  quite  impressive  about  the 
wonder-working  image  carried  with  pomp  through 
the  streets  of  Palermo  on  occasions  of  plague  and 
other  public  misfortune. 

Harding  left  Monica  here  to  climb  the  rough  foot- 
path that  led  to  the  summit  of  Monte  Pellegrino, 
whence  the  eye  had  a  vast  panorama  of  sea  and  shore, 
with  distant  snow  peaks;  on  clear  days  Stromboli 
could  be  picked  out,  and  the  pale  apex  of  JEtna.  in 
its  mantling  mists. 

When  he  returned,  he  found  Monica  still  seated  in 
the  chapel.  She  looked  up,  as  though  shaken  out  of 
reveries. 

"  You  have  not  been  long,"  she  said. 

"  Almost  an  hour,"  he  smiled.  "  You  have  been 
dreaming,  like  Santa  Rosalia.  Has  she  been  con- 
verting you  to  Catholicism?  After  all,  if  one  must 
deceive  oneself,  I  think  I'd  choose  the  Church  of 
Rome  in  preference  to  Protestantism,  that  is  as  super- 
stitious, and  not  even  lovely  in  its  art  and  music. 
Besides,  the  feminine  side  of  Romanism  is  poetic. 
Its  elevation  of  maternity  is  what  gives  it  such  a  hold 
on  women." 

"  I  think  that  women  would  have  elevated  mother- 
hood, any  way,"  she  returned. 

The  dignity  of  her  tone  made  him  glance  inquiringly 
at  her:  and  he  understood  what  had  been  absorbing 


THE  TEST  245 

her  during  his  absence.  For  the  first  time  Monica's 
approaching  motherhood  presented  itself  to  him  as 
something  more  than  an  unwelcome  fact.  He  had  not 
very  strong  paternal  instincts,  at  least,  they  had 
hardly  yet  been  awakened  in  him.  He  realized  how 
different  were  Monica's  feelings,  how  much  it  meant 
to  her. 

It  brought  him  self-reproach  over  his  irresponsi- 
bility. He  had  considered  marriage,  somehow,  as 
always  just  a  matter  of  Monica  and  himself.  The 
deepness  of  her  look  had  a  tinge  of  sadness,  he  thought, 
and  he  wondered  whence  it  sprang,  just  what  her 
meditations  were;  yet  he  could  not  bring  himself  to 
ask.  Reserve  wrapped  her  about  in  shadows  like 
those  investing  the  chapel  where  she  sat.  It  was 
one  of  the  times  when  it  came  to  him  how  the  nearest 
of  relations  had  its  separating  veils.  Would  he  ever 
know  her  truly  ? 

On  their  way  back  to  Palermo  his  mind  was  occu- 
pied by  the  new  sentiments  evoked  in  him.  Yes,  he 
was  far  too  self-centred.  The  year  had  been  one  of 
personal  gratification,  of  idle  enjoyment.  But  all 
that  must  end.  He  could  not  go  on  drifting,  marriage 
had  raised  up  issues  that  had  to  be  met.  It  was  he, 
not  Monica,  who  ought  to  do  the  planning.  No 
doubt  she  had  been  thinking  of  the  future,  all  it  held 
for  them  both,  during  the  hour  she  had  sat  in  Santa 
Rosalia's  chapel.  She  had  been  thinking — thinking  of 
life  and  its  problems.  Was  she  secretly  unhappy? 
Something  in  her  expression  had  fallen  on  him  like 


246  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

a  rebuke.  If  only  Monica  were  less  perfect.  ...  It 
would  be  a  relief  in  some  ways;  it  would  make  things 
so  much  less  difficult  for  them  both. 

Twilight  slowly  sank  as  they  continued  their  winding 
descent  to  the  plain.  The  moment  was  a  solvent  of 
all  things  earthly,  fusing  everything  into  a  marvellous 
vision  of  colour  and  softness.  The  beauty  of  the 
picture  made  Harding's  senses  ache.  As  long  as  life 
could  so  enrich,  it  compensated  for  the  tangles  and 
ironies.  He  would  seek  his  motive  for  living  in  beauty, 
as  Monica  found  hers  in  moral  obligation.  .  .  . 

They  were  half-way  down  the  road  when  Harding 
paused. 

"  Listen,"  he  said,  "  an  idyll  of  Theocritus." 

From  the  heights  above,  where  the  jagged  cliffs 
caught  the  sunset  glow,  came  a  tinkling  of  innumerable 
bells,  pierced  by  gruff  cries  that  strangely  stirred  the 
wistful  twilight. 

The  goatherds  of  Monte  Pellegrino  were  driving 
their  flocks  down  from  the  bleak  upper  pasturage. 
The  mountain-side,  which  during  the  afternoon  had 
seemed  barren  of  life,  was  suddenly  alive.  Hundreds 
of  goats — yellow,  white,  dun-coloured — shepherded 
by  their  guardians  in  pagan-like  sheepskins,  came 
leaping  like  a  cascade  from  boulder  to  boulder.  The 
clamour  of  copper  bells  grew  deafening  as  the  flocks 
approached.  At  length  they  flooded  the  causeway, 
while  some  of  the  goats,  mounting  the  dizzy  parapets, 
ran  along  them  with  frolicsome,  sure-footed  ease. 

They  brought  with  them  sharp,  acrid  odours  and 


THE  TEST  247 

clouds  of  dust,  as  they  inundated  the  angle  of  the 
road  where  the  travellers  had  paused.  Monica's  sober 
beast,  that  had  submitted  with  saintly  patience  to 
its  master's  goadings,  was  jostled  aside  by  the  advance 
guard.  It  began  baulking,  in  spite  of  the  boy's 
commands  and  bridle  jerks.  As  the  flocks  continued 
to  crowd  by  the  animal  was  thrust  violently  against 
the  stone  wall  of  the  viaduct,  and  Monica,  half  un- 
seated, was  in  danger  of  being  dashed  into  the  chasm. 
Harding  saved  her,  and  supported  her  as  best  he 
could.  They  waited  until  the  riotous  herds  had 
passed,  carrying  the  dust  and  clamour  on  to  the  plain. 

"  Are  you  hurt  ?  "  he  exclaimed.  He  was  trembling 
from  the  shock  of  her  danger. 

"  No,"  she  returned,  attempting  a  reassuring  smile. 
But  she  was  pale,  and  he  saw  that  the  incident  had 
unnerved  her. 

It  evoked  tenderness  in  him.  Suppose  she  had  been 
taken  from  him  before  he  had  proved  that  her  faith 
in  him  was  not  misplaced. 

They  took  no  more  long  excursions  after  that. 
For  several  days  Monica  kept  to  her  room,  and  when 
she  reappeared  she  was  languid  and  disinclined  to 
talk.  Harding  redoubled  in  his  attentions,  brought 
Monica  flowers,  read  to  her,  or  talked  in  a  cheerful, 
confident  strain  as  they  took  short  drives  or  walked 
or  sat  in  the  public  gardens.  But  the  thought  of  the 
child  lay  like  a  shadow  in  his  thoughts.  He  longed 
to  have  their  life  go  on  as  it  had  been. 

He  repioached  himself  now  for  not  having  proposed 


248  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

their  return  to  Paris,  where  Monica  might  have  been 
under  her  mother's  roof.  But  it  seemed  too  late;  the 
journey  was  long,  Paris  still  under  its  winter  blight. 
He  asked  if  she  would  like  him  to  send  for  Mrs.  Eversley, 
but  she  negatived  the  suggestion.  He  could  conceive 
of  her  mother  being  too  selfish,  too  "  invalidic  "  to 
take  the  trip,  and,  after  all,  Mrs.  Eversley  would  be 
little  solace. 

"  Then  Miss  Vanderhurst?  "  he  urged. 

But  she  shook  her  head.     "  Why  ask  so  much  of 
her?  "  she  answered.     He  was  moved.     How  lonely 
must  her  girlhood  have  been,  how  schooled  to  inde- 
pendence, that  she  could  do  so  well  without  others. 
****** 

When  the  child  came  Harding's  thoughts  were  all 
for  Monica,  until  he  noticed  the  doctor  shaking  a 
grave  head  over  the  little  bundle  whose  feeble  wail 
seemed  a  protest  against  its  own  being. 

"  A  slight  deformity — the  right  foot,"  said  the 
doctor. 

"  WiU  he  be  lame?  "  Harding  faltered. 

The  doctor  nodded:  "  I  fear  so.  It  must  have 
been  the  accident  on  Monte  Pellegrino." 

"  Poor  Monica !  "  Harding  thought.  And,  with  a 
guilty  start,  he  remembered  the  theme  he  had  so 
subtly  imagined  in  The  Labyrinth  of  Life. 


249 


CHAPTER  III 

THEY  returned  to  Paris  as  soon  as  Monica  and  the 
child  were  able  to  make  the  journey.  Harding  recog- 
nized that  his  "  wander  year,"  as  he  called  it,  was  over, 
and  that  circumstances  demanded  he  settle  down 
somewhere  and  make  a  home  for  his  family ;  and  Paris 
seemed  the  best  spot.  Yet  it  was,  perhaps,  less  sense 
of  responsibility  as  a  married  man  than  uneasiness  as 
an  author,  with  a  future  still  to  confirm,  that  brought 
him  to  this  conclusion.  He  had  met  in  the  smoking 
room  of  the  hotel,  one  evening,  a  fellow  traveller,  an 
American,  who  seeing  his  name  on  the  tabetta,  intro- 
duced himself  and  spoke  praisingly  of  The  Horns  of  the 
Altar.  "  I  suppose,"  he  said,  "  that  you  will  soon  have 
another  book  out." 

"  Not  for  some  time  yet,"  Harding  replied. 

"  That's  the  drawback  to  a  popular  hit;  it  sets  a 
standard  one  has  to  live  up  to."  The  smile  that  accom- 
panied the  remark  was  a  little  disparaging,  touched,  it 
might  be,  with  envy.  The  man  was  the  author  of 
several  books  which  had  received  scant  attention.  "  So 
you've  been  spending  your  time  in  Italy,"  he  went  on. 
"  There  is  something  insidious  in  the  life  here,  don't 
you  find  ?  I  call  Italy  the  '  afternoon  of  living.'  A 
good  place  to  end  one's  days  in,  but  bad  for  those  with 
ambition  left." 


250  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

The  conversation  dwelt  uncomfortably  in  Harding's 
mind,  and  he  said  to  Monica:  "  It's  time  I  was  getting 
into  harness  again.  There's  no  mental  ionic  in  these 
Southern  countries.  And  Paris  is  where  I  did  my  best 
work."  There  was  a  passing  sadness  on  his  face  at  the 
thought  of  The  Labyrinth  of  Life  which,  in  his  opinion, 
was  his  one  proof  of  real  talent. 

Monica's  ready  assent  to  the  proposition  displeased 
him;  it  seemed  to  suggest  that  privately  she  had  long 
deprecated  this  idleness. 

Although  he  started  north  with  some  regret,  Harding, 
on  reaching  Paris,  felt  its  old  charm  come  over  him. 
Yes,  he  was  glad  to  be  there  again.  The  staccato  beat 
of  the  cab  horses  on  the  asphalte,  as  they  left  the  station 
for  Neuilly,  fell  inspiritingly  on  his  ear,  and  he  breathed 
with  pleasure  the  pungent  odour  of  dampness  left  by  a 
recent  April  shower.  The  bustle  and  brightness  of  the 
city  gave  him  a  sense  of  close  renewal  with  his  age.  It 
challenged  ambition,  aroused  mental  activities.  Suc- 
cess meant  something  in  a  great  metropolis;  life  was  a 
compromise,  a  half  defeat,  lived  in  the  relaxing  sur- 
roundings of  remote  Rothenbourg  and  indolent  Palermo. 
He  talked  to  his  wife  with  so  much  animation  on  the 
way  to  her  mother's  home — where  they  were  to  pay  a 
visit  before  taking  an  apartment — that  she  was  im- 
pressed by  the  man  displayed.  Julian  was  getting  to 
be  what  she  had  hoped;  the  year  of  rest  and  change  had 
had  rewarding  effect. 

Mrs.  Eversley  received  them  with  a  graceful,  semi- 
invalidic,  but  almost  reproachful  smile.  She  lay  Ian- 


THE  TEST  251 

guidly  on  her  long  chair,  in  her  Madame  de  Sevigne 
boudoir.  She  wished  to  look  lovely — lovely  in  a  fragile, 
convalescent  way.  It  was  sentiment  that  bore  her  up, 
and  the  fact  that  it  happened  to  be  one  of  her  "  good 
days."  The  calendar  had  covered  a  good  many  of  these 
during  the  dear  truants'  long  absence.  She  had  been  at 
Aix-les-Bains  the  previous  summer,  where  many  louis 
drawn  from  what  was  left  of  Monica's  fortune  had  gone 
in  amusing  herself  at  the  casino  tables;  and  having  had, 
the  past  winter,  Julia  Vanderhurst  to  multiply  acquaint- 
ances for  her,  she  had  enjoyed  going  out  and  receiving 
people  in,  with  remarkable  activity — considering  the 
invalid  she  was.  Her  eyes,  it  was  true,  still  suffered 
from  that  awful  Latin  name  the  oculist  had  applied  to 
them,  and  she  continued  to  prefer  seeing  things  as  they 
were  not  to  seeing  them  as  they  were  through  dis- 
figuring glasses;  and,  after  all,  there  were  worse 
maladies.  Besides,  it  had  not  interfered  with  con- 
templating, in  the  cheval  glass,  always  convenient  to 
her  couch,  what  seemed  to  her  a  very  satisfying  vision  of 
girlish  beauty. 

She  informed  the  mother-neglecting  prodigals  that 
it  had  been  rather  a  lonely  winter,  in  spite  of  a  devoted 
Julia  by  her  side,  and  that  she  had  missed  them  sadly. 
She  had  spared  the  spinster — who  had  now  gone  to 
London — the  whole  knowledge  of  her  ills :  one  hated  to 
distress  kind  friends;  and  yes,  she  supposed  she  was 
improving  under  her  new — and  even  more  sympathetic 
— doctor;  she  was  sure,  since  they  were  returned  to 
cheer  her  up,  her  present  little  attack  would  soon  pass. 


252  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

Of  course,  she  must  do  a  little  entertaining  for  them,  a 
dinner  or  so;  revive  her  afternoons.  Not  much — she 
had  not  the  strength,  alas,  for  much — but  just  enough 
to  put  them  in  touch  with  their  friends  again. 

She  consented,  without  much  enthusiasm,  to  have 
the  infant  brought  to  her.  Harding  felt  that  she  blamed 
him  for  his  lack  of  consideration  in  making  her  a  grand- 
mother. It  had  been  hard  enough  to  endure  the 
incriminating  fact  of  a  daughter. 

"  What  a  puny  little  thing,"  was  her  comment,  after 
a  rather  casual  inspection  of  the  addition  to  the  family. 
"  He  doesn't  resemble  either  of  you  especially,  does 
he  ?  I  wonder  what  sort  of  a  child  it  will  grow  up  to  be." 

It  was  what  Harding  himself  sometimes  wondered; 
but  he  had  a  reticence,  somehow,  about  discussing  the 
subject  with  his  wife.  Monica  had  never  alluded  to 
the  poor  twisted  foot,  which  seemed  to  him  almost  a 
foreshadowing  of  a  twisted  nature.  It  was  a  vague 
theory  of  his  that  deformed  minds  went  with  deformed 
bodies. 

Mrs.  Eversley  roused  herself  heroically  to  her  dinner 
and  tea  giving,  because,  as  she  confided  to  her  son-in- 
law,  the  end  of  the  season  must  be  made  pleasant  for 
them.  It  was  in  connection  with  this  immolation  of 
invalidism  on  the  social  altar  that  the  question  of  the 
apartment  came  up.  It  was  not  to  be  thought  of,  she 
said;  they  were,  naturally,  to  make  their  home  with  her. 

"  I  thought  it  was  all  settled  before  you  left  Paris 
that  you  were  to  remain  here,"  she  cried  reproachfully. 
"  What  should  I  do  all  alone  in  a  great  house  like 


THE  TEST  253 

this?  I've  just  renewed  the  lease  in  expectation  of 
your  coming.  Besides,  you  will  be  so  much  more 
comfortable.  Monica  is  a  dear  girl,  full  of  good 
domestic  intentions,  but  inexperienced.  You  see,  I 
brought  her  up  under  the  idea  it  would  never  be  neces- 
sary to  take  the  control  of  a  house  in  the  painful,  tire- 
some sense.  ...  I  mean  where  she  would  have  a  hundred 
little  cares,  like  knowing  the  price  of  chops,  for 
instance."  It  appeared  that  Mrs.  Eversley  regarded 
it  as  quite  tragic  to  have  to  know  the  price  of  chops. 
"  And  then  '  a  modest  apartment '  has  such  a  depres- 
sing sound,  as  though  you  weren't,  Julian — as,  of 
course,  you  are — a  successful  author  who  can  count  on 
ample  means.  I  know  there  is  a  good  deal  of  old- 
fashioned  talk  about  beginning  married  life  simply,  and 
that  sort  of  thing ;  but  times  have  so  changed,  and  we 
really  can't  afford  being  '  simple  '  any  more.  People 
expect  much  of  us  nowadays.  One  has  to  live  well 
and  entertain,  or  be  ignored.  And  who  can  stand 
being  ignored — I  know  I  can't — and  it  would  be  fatal, 
as  far  as  you  are  concerned.  The  world  only  cares  to 
read  the  books  of  people  whom  the  papers  describe  as 
writing  in  charming,  tasteful  studies,  with  a  motor 
at  the  door.  How  can  one  believe  in  the  reliability  of 
their  versions  of  life  unless  .  .  .  well,  unless  there  is  a 
motor.  You  see,  I  have  my  Limousine;  and  then  the 
background  of  this  house.  I  do  think  it  is  sweet, 
with  so  many  genuine  things  in  it,  and  I  can  create 
you  such  an  ideal  study  where  no  one  shall  disturb 
you;  I  shall  see  to  that.  Yes,  I  think  you  owe  the 


254  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

effect  of  all  that  to  yourself,  to  the  literary  position 
you  have  achieved.  Of  course,  I  know  it  is  really 
Monica.  Poor,  dear,  earnest  Monica !  She  does  mean 
so  well,  but  she  makes  her  mistakes,  alas!  And  it 
would  be  such  a  mistake  to  listen  to  her  .  .  .  burying 
yourself  in  some  out-of-the-way  quarter  of  town  and 
giving  the  impression  you're  both  half  starving." 

She  was  very  smiling  and  sweet;  but,  under  her 
words,  Harding  felt  was  the  implication  that,  unless 
he  could  keep  up  appearances,  as  she  had  described 
them,  he  had  misrepresented  his  ability  to  give  Monica 
the  comforts  he  owed  her. 

And,  indeed,  the  Neuilly  house  flattered  his  growing 
taste  for  luxury  and  fastidiousness  in  regard  to  sur- 
roundings. He  had  his  American  sentiments  about 
independence,  but  it  did  seem  an  unnecessary  protest 
to  exchange  Mrs.  Eversley's  ample  and  beautiful  home 
for  an  apartment;  and  in  the  conversation  that  fol- 
lowed Mrs.  Eversley  conceded  that,  of  course,  he 
might  contribute  his  share  in  the  expenses  of  the 
common  menage — since  it  would  so  ease  his  pride— 
although  she  let  him  infer  that  it  would  not  be  much, 
that  she  meant  to  be  more  than  generous  over  it  all. 
Her  air  was  one  of  playful  allowance  of  his  man's 
sentiments. 

She  might  well  be  generous,  he  reflected,  remember- 
ing Monica's  temporary  renunciation  of  her  fortune. 
He  might  have  thought  his  wife  foolishly  generous, 
but  it  had  left  him  no  great  feeling  of  disappointment. 
In  a  way  he,  too,  was  careless  about  money  matters 


THE  TEST  255 

as  long  as  he  had  enough  in  his  pocket.  He  was  glad, 
however,  to  remember  that  Monica  had  a  fortune,  even 
if  she  did  not  enjoy  it  during  her  mother's  lifetime. 
It  protected  her  in  case  of  misfortune  to  himself;  was 
ample  protection,  judging  from  what  Mrs.  Eversley 
could  do  on  the  income.  The  self-sacrificing  act — 
when  he  recalled  it — modified  his  feeling  that  Monica 
was  rather  hard  and  indifferent  in  her  filial  senti- 
ments. 

When  he  spoke  to  her  of  Mrs.  Eversley's  proposal, 
she  looked  disappointed,  but  did  not  oppose  it  beyond 
suggesting  that,  as  by  his  own  confession,  he  was  not 
well  off,  the  expense  attached  to  the  arrangement 
might  prove  awkward. 

"  Oh,  as  to  that,"  he  returned,  "  I  am  quite  able 
to  meet  my  share.  But,  of  course,  we'll  take  an  apart- 
ment, if  you  prefer."  His  sensitiveness  was  aroused 
by  what  appeared  to  be  a  reflection  on  his  spirit  of 
independence.  "  I  was  only  thinking  you  might  be 
more  comfortable  here.  However,  we'll  look  up 
apartments  to-morrow,"  he  added. 

But  there  was  a  tea  next  day  that  Mrs.  Eversley 
particularly  wanted  him  to  escort  her  to:  a  tea  where 
he  would  meet  some  interesting  artistic  personalities 
like  himself,  as  she  flatteringly  put  it.  Monica  declined 
to  go,  on  the  ground  that  she  cared  little  for  such 
functions. 

"  Poor  Monica,"  was  her  mother's  comment.  "  I 
fear  she  is  determined  to  be  one  of  those  dull,  domestic 
wives.  It  is  a  pity,  Julian;  you  really  oughtn't  to 


256  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

let  her.     A  dull  wife  tempts  a  man  to  be  a  gay 
husband." 

She  looked  at  him  rather  archly;  it  was  pleasant 
to  be  going  about  again  with  a  young  man  who  was 
not  a  bad  substitute  for  Percy.  If  it  was  easy  for  her 
to  forget  that  her  daughter  existed,  it  required  no 
strain  at  all  to  forget  that  Julian  was  her  son-in-law. 
She  had  on  a  lovely  new  toilette — it  was  a  mere  inci- 
dent that  it  had  not  been  paid  for  yet.  It  was  all 
part  of  her  sweet,  girlish  irresponsibility,  for  she  was 
a  girl  yet,  she  told  herself,  as  she  glanced  (without 
glasses  on,  of  course)  in  the  hall  mirror.  Yes,  she 
felt  quite  vernal,  like  the  May  weather,  in  starting 
forth  with  dear  Julian,  even  if  there  could  be  no  holding 
hands  any  more  in  the  little  salon. 

Harding  was  a  bit  annoyed  at  Monica's  refusal  to 
accompany  them,  although  the  child  was  so  young 
and  frail  that  it  seemed  natural  for  a  mother  to  remain 
with  it.  But  he  was  not  thinking  of  that.  He  was 
wondering  if  Monica  hadn't  more  sensitiveness  about 
the  family  scandal  than  she  admitted.  This  explana- 
tion, he  felt,  might  suggest  itself  to  people  who  knew 
the  story  and  never  met  her  in  society.  Pride  almost 
seemed  to  demand  her  going  out  to  negative  the  idea. 
It  was  part  of  his  respect  for  her  that  he  believed  she 
could  rise  above  it  in  this  connection  as  he  had  in 
marrying  her. 

Yet  he  kissed  her  devotedly  enough  on  parting 
from  her. 


257 


CHAPTER  IV 

ONE  June  morning  Harding  was  out  in  the  Bois.  He 
needed  exercise  and  fresh  air;  he  was  worried  by  his 
slowness  in  constructing  a  plot.  It  must  be  a  bright, 
optimistic  story,  dedicated  to  his  wife — but,  somehow, 
the  prospect  of  such  a  theme  did  not  fire  him  with 
enthusiasm.  There  was  certainly  much  suggestion  of 
cheerfulness  in  his  surroundings;  the  house  was 
cheerful,  Mrs.  Eversley  was  cheerful,  the  Clodion 
Psyche  was  cheerful;  but  such  outward  indications 
could  not  suffice  where  the  quality  lacked  in  himself. 
Art  was  to  him  not  only  a  question  of  "  cheerfulness  " : 
the  dramatic  element  was  always  required  to  stir  him, 
and  the  all-pleasant,  with  its  inevitable  buffoonery, 
failed  to  interest  him  even  casually  as  a  reader,  so 
he  could  not  approach  it  as  a  creator. 

Worried  as  he  was  by  this  condition  of  his  thoughts, 
material  complications  disturbed  him,  which  he  might 
have  set  aside  had  he  been  absorbed  in  work  that  really 
appealed  to  him.  The  charming  study  that  Mrs. 
Eversley  had  arranged  as  a  refuge  for  family  author- 
ship had  taken  some  time  to  fit  up;  she  kept  having 
new  inspirations  as  to  its  furnishing.  Then  he  had 
to  look  up  Nicolls  and  other  friends.  There  had  been 
dinners  and  late  receptions,  too,  that  had  left  him 
out  of  trim  for  work  next  day.  There  was  the  habit 

s 


258  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

of  a  year's  idleness  to  overcome.  He  missed  the 
familiar  conditions  of  his  little  room  on  the  quay, 
and  missed,  too,  the  self-isolation  which  had  been 
possible  there.  Apart  from  the  necessity  of  sharing 
his  life  with  others,  he  could  not  even  consider  himself 
at  home  in  his  mother-in-law's  house.  He  was  still 
there  in  the  position  of  a  guest — and  a  "  paying  guest," 
at  that.  The  promised  talk  between  Mrs.  Eversley 
and  himself  about  expenses  had  never  taken  place. 
She  had  set  it  aside  with  the  air  of  one  generously 
ignoring  a  trifle.  During  the  month,  however,  sundry 
large  housekeeping  bills  had  been  presented;  and  he, 
being  appealed  to  by  the  servants,  had  paid  impa- 
tiently rather  than  expose  himself  to  the  indignity  of 
dunning.  Mrs.  Eversley  on  these  occasions  had 
always  been  lying  down,  or  just  going  out,  or  unable 
to  find  her  cheque-book;  and — after  he  had  paid- 
she  would  invariably  say  in  a  tone  of  gentle  reproof: 
"  Oh,  but  why  did  you  do  it  ?  "  Then,  a  few  days  later, 
when  she  could  decently  appear  to  have  forgotten  the 
incident,  she  would  make  a  dainty  allusion  to  the 
"  little  business  talk  we  must  have  the  very  first  time 
I  feel  strong  enough."  Meanwhile  Harding's  bank- 
account  was  growing  more  invalidic  week  by  week, 
and  he  felt  the  real  urgency  of  getting  on  with  his 
book.  Yes,  he  certainly  ought  to  be  "cheerful"; 
but  he  certainly  wasn't. 

As  he  paced  along  the  Avenue  des  Acacias,  in  all 
its  gala  sweetness  of  flower,  a  Limousine  stopped  on 
the  road  beside,  and  he  recognized  a  familiar,  fresh- 


THE  TEST  259 

coloured  face  at  the  lowered  pane.  He  knew,  by  Miss 
Vanderhurst's  letters,  that  Buttercup's  marriage  to 
Percy  Colston  had  taken  place  shortly  after  his  de- 
parture from  Paris  the  previous  June;  and  that  the 
two  occupied  a  house  in  the  Avenue  du  Bois  de  Bou- 
logne, the  palatial  splendours  of  which  advertised  the 
triumph  of  tea  as  a  wealth-conductor  if  a  nerve- 
destroyer.  Harding  had  once  or  twice  wondered  why 
he  had  not  met  the  poet  and  his  bride  at  the  various 
entertainments  he  had  attended;  it  was  mere  chance, 
no  doubt,  for  Buttercup,  he  was  aware,  had  pursued 
ardently  the  social  path  opened  by  her  marriage. 

He  had  not  settled  in  his  mind  how  he  would  greet 
her,  but  was  saved  embarrassment  on  that  score  by 
Buttercup's  frank  pleasure  at  seeing  him.  "  There," 
she  said,  as  he  shook  hands,  "  I  was  expecting  this. 
Get  into  the  machine,  and  we'll  go  drive  as  far  as  the 
Cascades.  I  am  out  for  an  airing,  and  I  see  you  are; 
so  we  might  as  well  take  it  together.  Besides,  there 
are  all  sorts  of  things  to  talk  over,  you  know." 

She  seemed  wholly  to  assume  that  their  misunder- 
standing at  the  Opera  Ball  was  forgotten;  evidently 
she  herself  had  forgotten  it.  And,  indeed,  it  was 
hardly  cause  for  lifelong  coldness;  if  she  had  been 
rather  malicious  in  telling  him  of  the  Eversleys' 
ancestry,  he  had  in  great  measure  provoked  it.  The 
quarrel  lay,  after  all,  between  Percy  Colston  and 
himself;  Colston  had  bred  all  the  mischief. 

"  Well,  so  we  both  have  been  married  a  year,"  she 
said,  when  he  had  seated  himself  beside  her.  "  Quite 

S3 


260  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

time  we  were  comparing  notes,  don't  you  agree?  " 
And  she  laughed,  as  though  she  took  matrimony 
lightly  and  concluded  he  did. 

The  laugh  was  not  quite  the  old  one,  it  struck  him; 
there  was  a  new  note  in  it.  It  accorded  with  a  good 
deal  else  that  seemed  new  about  Buttercup.  Harding 
was  impressed,  almost  surprised,  at  the  transformation 
which  a  year  had  made  in  Hiram  Baxter's  daughter. 
She  had  acquired  quite  the  air  of  a  young  woman  of 
fashion.  There  was  tone,  sophistication,  about  her, 
and  it  suited  her  riper  beauty;  her  clothes  had  a 
knowing  chic,  and  her  voice  had  been  put  out  to  school 
— it  was  modified,  almost  elegant  in  its  intonations. 
As  he  met  her  eyes — for  she  was  studying  him  with 
frank  interest — he  had  the  sense  of  even  greater  dif- 
ferences under  all  this  easy  adaptation  to  Parisian 
standards  of  looks  and  dress.  There  were  clouded 
depths,  like  a  clear  pool  that  had  been  stirred,  half 
revealing  things  which,  no  doubt,  had  been  there 
always,  in  abeyance.  Harding  had  not  found  her 
eyes  particularly  interesting  before;  but  they  inter- 
ested him  now.  First,  youth  was  gone;  it  was  no 
longer  girlhood  that  guessed  about  life,  it  was  woman- 
hood that  knew.  There  was  about  Mrs.  Percy  Colston 
consciousness  of  her  physical  attraction,  of  the  subtler 
uses  that  could  be  made  of  it.  It  was  more  than  a 
revelation,  it  came  as  a  shock;  Buttercup's  old  candid 
heartiness  had  pleased  him,  had  compensated  for  her 
crudities.  Mrs.  Percy  Colston  was  certainly  no  longer 
crude;  she  seemed,  on  the  contrary,  fairly  far  on  the 


THE  TEST  261 

road  to  becoming  over-civilized.  He  wondered  how 
much  "  Percy  "  was  responsible  for  the  accent  which 
he  vaguely  divined  in  her.  It  caused  a  passing  twinge 
of  conscience,  for  he  still  nursed  the  flattering  idea 
that  his  treatment  of  Buttercup  had  precipitated  the 
foolish  marriage.  No  wonder  Buttercup  laughed 
about  her  matrimonial  whim.  But  he  was  glad  that 
she  could  laugh. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  have  been  quite  looking  forward 
to  seeing  you.  Somebody  told  me — I  forget  who,  one 
meets  so  many  people — that  you  and  your  wife  were 
in  Paris.  At  least,  my  informant  supposed  it  was 
both,  though  you  are  reported  to  go  out  alone,  or, 
rather,  with  Mrs.  Eversley  hovering  like  a  guardian 
angel.  Now,  don't  grow  cross.  Can't  an  old  friend 
tease  you  ?  And  I  am  that,  I  hope.  But  why  do  you 
look  at  me  so  ?  Do  you  think  I  have  changed  ?  But 
you've  changed,  too." 

"  Have  I  ?  "  and  his  laugh  was  meant  to  match  her 
own.  "  In  what  way?  " 

"  Oh,  it's  being  married,  I  suppose.  But  the 
changes  in  us  don't  mean  we've  got  to  change  to  each 
other.  I  always  let  Percy  manage  his  own  feuds,  so 
I  don't  see  why  we  should  have  any  Montague  and 
Capulet  feelings."  Again  she  laughed,  perhaps  enjoy- 
ing all  the  remark  suggested.  She  added:  "  With  the 
sentiment  left  out,  of  course.  Just  a  friendly  alliance, 
you  know,  between  picked  members  of  the  hostile 
houses  of  Eversley  and  Colston.  Why  not?  " 

"  Why  not,  indeed  ?  "     He  thought  she  showed  more 


262  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

skill  in  talking.  He  could  well  believe  it  was  her  hus- 
band. He  recalled  Nicolls's  remark  that  Buttercup, 
with  half  a  chance,  would  soak  up  culture  as  blotting- 
paper  does  ink.  He  went  on,  feeling  some  response 
due  to  her  challenging  air:  "  We  couldn't  be  anything 
but  friends." 

'  Yes,  so  it  seemed,"  she  returned  dryly,  seizing  on 
the  unintended  ambiguity  of  his  assurance.  "  Though 
I  took  you  rather  seriously  in  the  beginning.  You 
flirted  with  me  outrageously — you  know  you  did.  I 
was  silly;  but  I'm  not  sure  even  now  that  it  was  quite 
fair  of  you.  But,  there,  if  we  speak  of  that,  we  may 
fall  to  quarrelling.  And,  as  I  say,  I  leave  quarrelling 
to  Percy.  It's  his  speciality." 

"  It's  just  as  well  not  to  revive  all  that.  Though  it 
gives  me  the  chance  to  apologize  for  having  been  rude 
at  the  Opera  that  night." 

"  Oh,  I've  forgiven  that,  and  everything  else,"  she 
affirmed.  And  again  her  eyes  met  his.  '  You  see,  I 
have  to  cultivate  a  good  temper.  Nobody  could  live 
with  Percy  who  didn't.  Oh,  don't  think  from  that," 
she  added,  guessing  his  thought,  "  that  we  don't  get 
on.  We  do."  And  this  time  her  laugh  was  slightly 
hard.  "  We  understand  each  othei — and  that's  a 
great  deal  in  this  life,  you  know." 

She  hesitated  for  a  moment,  caressing  her  Pomera- 
nian, whose  bright  ribbon  matched  her  gown.  It  was 
part  of  a  studied  harmony  about  her,  and  expressed 
an  acquired  elegance  of  life.  The  completeness  of 
little  luxurious  accessories  in  the  Limousine  suggested 


THE  TEST  263 

that  she  must  spend  most  of  her  days  in  it ;  he  noticed 
particularly  a  silver  cigarette  case.  When  he  knew 
her,  she  had  not  smoked. 

"  Papa,  as  you  can  imagine,  did  not  take  to  Percy 
much,"  Buttercup  began  again,  her  conversation 
flowing  with  something  of  the  old  spontaneity.  "  But, 
then,  he  was  deadly  afraid  I  would  fall  in  love  with  a 
foreigner.  The  worst  American,  to  his  mind,  is 
better  than  the  best  European."  Again  her  laugh 
came — the  new  moderated  laugh  that  told  him  so 
much.  "  Then  I  enjoy  living  in  Paris.  Society's  so 
new  to  me — Paris  society,  I  mean,"  she  corrected 
hastily.  "  Of  course,  I'm  on  the  go  the  whole  time. 
Now  tell  me  about  yourself — it's  your  turn.  You've 
become  quite  a  man  of  the  world,  haven't  you  ?  You've 
given  up  being  an  author,  any  way;  I  never  see  any- 
thing of  yours.  I  still  have  your  Adonis-Garden — 
with  its  dedication.  Don't  you  write  verses  any  more  ? 
And  is  it  because  life's  all  prose,  no  poetry  ?  " 

"If  life  were  ever  anything  else  but  prose,  there 
would  be  no  need  of  poets  trying  to  say  it  isn't,"  he 
returned.  "As  to  telling  about  myself,  I  don't  know 
there's  anything  to  tell.  I'm  writing,  but  slowly; 
and  I  go  out — slowly,  too." 

"  I  don't  wonder  you  look  slow,  then,"  she  com- 
mented. "  But  it's  not  for  me  to  criticize;  if  you 
sound  prosaic,  why,  I  do,  too.  Your  wife's  quite 
handsome,  I'm  told.  I  know  she  doesn't  go  out,  so 
I  won't  suggest  calling." 

"  She  is  rather  domestic,"  Harding  suggested. 


264  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

"  And  you  ?  "  Buttercup  demanded. 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  ideally  so.  I  don't  particularly  care 
for  Society,  but  I'm  not  crazy  about  always  staying 
at  home,  either." 

"  Then  you'll  have  to  come  to  my  afternoons. 
We'll  probably  be  meeting  all  the  time,  any  way.  I 
shouldn't  like  to  make  Mrs.  Harding  jealous,  though, 
since  she  doesn't  go  about  with  you." 

"  Oh,  she's  never  jealous." 

"  Really  ?  How  fond  she  must  be  of  you,  then ! 
Percy  feels  quite  safe  about  me,  too.  He  doesn't 
have  to  break  any  of  the  Sevres  china  papa  gave  us." 

Then,  as  though  personalities  had  lasted  long 
enough,  she  drifted  to  general  subjects. 

When  Harding  parted  fiom  Buttercup,  he  promised 
to  come  to  her  next  "  At  home." 

And,  indeed,  he  asked  himself:  Why  not? 
****** 

Harding  would  have  expected  to  be  angry  when 
he  first  met  Percy  Colston;  but  rancour,  at  the  end 
of  a  year,  is  apt  to  stale.  The  two  came  face  to  face 
in  front  of  the  Ritz  one  day  shortly  after  Harding's 
drive  with  Buttercup.  Colston's  manner  was  dis- 
arming; and,  besides,  when  Harding,  with  character- 
istic directness,  brought  up  the  question  of  The  Laby- 
rinth of  Life,  he  found  himself  in  an  untenable  position 
through  the  poet's  positive  denial  of  any  responsibility 
in  regard  to  it : 

"  Why,  my  dear  fellow,  what  had  I  to  do  with  your 
writing  that  story?  I  don't  encourage  other  people 


THE  TEST  265 

to  write  novels.  Novels  are  middle-class  art.  I 
should  blush  to  have  done  one  myself.  In  fact,  I 
always  say:  Don't!  to  people  who  have  the  vulgar 
mania.  I  don't  say  a  plot  never  crops  up  in  my 
mind — all  sorts  of  odious  things  will  happen  to  a 
man.  But  if  I  moan  it  out  in  my  misery,  and  you 
snap  it  up,  thinking  it's  a  good  thing,  don't  cast 
reflections  on  my  character,  but  keep  a  sharp  lookout 
for  your  own.  You  are  as  ungrateful  and  as  impossible 
as  Fernet  and  Circour,  who  are  always  stealing  my 
ideas  and  then  nursing  sore  heads  afterwards.  But, 
at  least,  they  steal  ideas,  and  you  come  nosing  around 
in  the  backyard  with  notions  I'd  be  ashamed  to  own. 
Really,  you  are  the  limit — er — er — as  Hiram  Baxter 
would  say,  of  course,  because,  as  you  know,  I  never 
use  slang. 

"  Still,  you  might  have  told  me  the  truth,"  Harding 
said. 

"  When  I'd  promised  Mrs.  Eversley  not  to  ?  She 
was  always  fussing  about  it,  as  though  a  family  crime 
was  the  only  thing  to  lend  importance  to  a  woman." 

Harding  had  invited  him  into  the  Ritz,  but  he 
indignantly  refused  tea. 

"  I've  had  enough  tea  to  last  me  for  the  rest  of  my 
life.  My  system  is  poisoned  with  tannin.  I  haven't 
seen  you,  have  I,  since  Buttercup  and  I  got  married  ? 
Well,  then,  of  course,  you  can't  understand  how 
Surpassing  Ceylon  has  got  on  my  nerves.  You  see,  it 
was  the  name  of  Baxter  that  induced  me  to  say  '  yes  ' 
when  Buttercup  was  offered.  I  thought  of  Baxter's 


266  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

Saint's  Rest,  which  was  grateful  to  one  as  tired 
of  the  world  as  I  am.  I  said  it  would  be  a  rest  for  me. 
But,  then,  I  hadn't  seen  Hiram  and  his  sideburns.  I 
couldn't — how  could  I  ? — have  conceived  of  anything 
so  awful.  I  thought  Nature,  when  she  had  invented 
Miss  Zenobia,  had  committed  her  worst.  Those  two 
weeks  in  America  have  left  me  in  a  state  of  nervous 
prostration  from  which  I  shall  never  recover.  Chicot 
was  as  much  affected  as  I.  He  wanted  to  warn  me, 
the  poor  little  creature;  he  jangled  his  bells  as  much 
as  to  tell  me  if  I  married  into  such  a  dreadful  ambient, 
it  would  be  jangle  for  the  rest  of  my  life. 

'  Yes,  as  I  say,  how  was  I  to  know  you  were  going 
to  marry  Monica  Eversley?  It  no  more  occurred  to 
me  than  that  I  was  going  to  marry  Buttercup.  That's 
the  interesting  thing  about  life.  It  keeps  you  guessing 
what  is  going  to  happen.  Buttercup  took  me  so  by 
surprise  that  I  said  I  would,  when  I  meant  I  wouldn't. 
She  proposed  so  crudely — it  was  the  night  of  that 
Opera  ball — that  I  was  rather  charmed.  I  had  begun 
to  despair  of  her  remaining  elementary — it  was  what 
took  my  fancy,  you  remember — and  it  revived  my 
hopes  of  her.  But  how  she  has  disappointed  me! 
You'd  hardly  know  her  for  the  same  girl.  She's 
sickeningly  grammatical,  like  everybody  else.  As  I 
tell  her,  if  only  she  would  be  unsyntaxical  again. 
But  she  won't,  she  hardly  ever  commits  a  solecism. 
She  has  absolutely  no  conception  of  the  value  of  being 
vulgar.  In  fact,  Buttercup  is  almost  a  lady  now,  I 
fear."  And  he  sighed  wearily. 


THE  TEST  267 

"  Don't  be  hard  on  Mrs.  Perdoe,"  he  continued,  as 
he  sipped  vermouth,  "  for  making  away  with  objec- 
tionable persons.  I  wish  she  were  alive  to  exercise 
her  beautiful  art  upon  Hiram  Baxter.  I  hate  the 
name  of  tea.  I  never  take  a  cup  that  I  don't  read 
my  fate  in  the  leaves  at  the  bottom." 

Harding  interrupted  him  to  say  that  Mrs.  Perdoe 
had  only  been  charged,  not  convicted,  of  criminal 
acts.  The  poet  seemed  to  think  that  rather  robbed 
the  scandal  of  interest. 

"And  what,  by  the  way,  became  of  the  book?  " 
he  asked.  "  I  don't  seem  to  have  heard  that  it  was 
published." 

"  Of  course  it  wasn't,"  Harding  said  angrily.  "  Do 
you  suppose  I'd  publish  it  under  the  circum- 
stances? " 

"  What  circumstances?  "  returned  the  poet.  "  The 
American  public,  you  mean?  No,  I  don't  suppose 
it  would  have  pleased  the  Miss  Zenobias,  found  favour 
with  clerks  on  their  way  to  suburban  homes,  Maine 
school-mistresses,  women  with  no  thoughts  above 
servants  and  Sunday  roasts.  It  wouldn't  have  been 
talked  about  at  afternoon  teas  and  mothers'  meetings. 
It  didn't  dilute  truth  with  a  pint  of  rose-water;  it 
hadn't  any  kitchen-hall  humour.  In  a  word,  it  was 
Art,  and  you  feared  if  you  were  artistic,  you'd  lose 
your  popularity.  My  dear  fellow,  I  warned  you 
against  the  camp  of  the  Philistines.  But  I  see  it  was 
no  use.  You've  given  yourself  over,  hand  and  foot, 
to  Mammon  and  all  mercantile  unrighteousness." 


268  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

"  I  haven't  given  myself  to  anything,"  said  Harding, 
thinking  of  his  manuscript  scarcely  begun.  "  I  seem 
to  have  lost  the  knack  of  writing." 

"  Ah — no  wonder!  Art  knocked  at  your  door,  and 
you  turned  her  away.  Besides,  you  oughtn't  to  have 
married.  Marriage  is  the  champion  of  '  the  world  and 
what  it  fears.'  In  brief,  you've  become  too  respect- 
able. An  artist  should  never  be  respectable.  Once 
you  belonged,  or  might  have  belonged,  to  literature. 
Now,  my  dear  fellow,  you  belong  to  your  wife.  And, 
you  know,  the  sacred  fire  was  meant  for  altars,  not  for 
hearthstones.  There's  too  little  draught  on  a  hearth- 
stone." Percy  liked  to  pose  as  a  hearthstone  breaker, 
though  really  not  man  enough  to  try  it. 

Harding  recalled  to  him  the  fact  that  he  was  married 
himself. 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so,  but  I'm  married  as  little  as 
possible,"  the  poet  qualified.  "  Buttercup  and  I 
agreed  to  be  sensible  about  it;  it's  the  only  time  we 
ever  did  agree  as  to  what  was  common-sense.  Yes, 
it's  '  agreement  a  la  mode  '  with  us.  Buttercup,  you 
know,  isn't  particular,  so  long  as  she  knows  she's 
fashionable." 

Harding  felt  sorry  for  Buttercup  as  he  left  Colston. 
He  had  repented  of  his  promise  to  call,  and  would 
probably  not  have  gone,  if  it  had  not  been  for  that 
meeting  at  the  Ritz.  As  it  was,  however,  he  went.  She 
received  him  heartily,  and,  while  there  was  no  oppor- 
tunity for  any  real  conversation,  he  enjoyed  the  visit. 
He  did  not  mention  it  to  Monica;  why  should  he  not 


THE  TEST  269 

see  his  friends  ?     He  had  the  right  to  liberty  of  action. 
And  right  to  liberty  of  Art,  too. 

Although  he  felt  Colston  was  posing  as  usual,  their 
talk  had  left  him  with  a  sense  of  profound  discourage- 
ment. Marriage  was  not,  he  mused,  conducive  to 
literary  glow;  it  was  forcing  him,  for  the  sake  of  his 
wife,  for  the  sake  of  money,  for  the  sake  of  "  respect- 
ability," to  write  in  a  vein  of  insincerity.  A  number 
of  vague  ideas  had  occurred  to  him,  and  every  one 
that  he  liked  seemed  to  lack  the  "  wholesome  "  note 
that  he  knew  Monica  expected,  as  demonstrating  his 
"  reform  ";  and  he  truly  desired  to  please  her,  while 
not  renouncing  the  hope  to  please  his  Art-self  simul- 
taneously. He  had  not  succeeded.  He  dreaded  any 
more  Labyrinth  of  Life  issues.  Yet  he  did  not  want 
to  return  to  the  smug  fashion  of  The  Horns  of  the 
Altar.  Smug  was  the  word  he  applied  after  re-reading 
the  book  to  which  he  owed  his  position.  No  wonder 
it  had  sold,  for  it  had  none  of  the  awkwardness,  the 
alienating  effect  of  real  Art.  The  book  chilled  him  by 
its  commonplaceness,  its  authenticated  sentiments, 
and,  mentally,  he  compared  it  with  the  manuscript 
he  had  sacrificed  for  Monica;  the  only  thing  he  had 
done  that  was  really  artistic.  As  he  thought  of  it, 
cast  aside,  a  smothered  resentment  rose  in  him. 
Though  he  did  not  suspect  the  fact,  from  that  day 
reflections  upon  past  mistakes  held  a  more  important 
place  in  his  thought  than  the  speculations  as  to  a  new 
plot  to  which  he  sincerely  believed  he  was  devoting 
himself. 


270  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

Mrs.  Eversley  leased  a  villa  at  Trouville  for  that 
summer;  her  health  really  required  it,  she  said,  and 
also  little  Julian's  health — it  was  the  first  time  she 
had  taken  thought  of  the  child.  Harding  accepted 
the  arrangement  not  unwillingly,  believing  it  would 
be  bracing  to  write  by  the  sea;  more  experienced 
authors  might  have  told  him  the  task  would  be  a 
well-nigh  hopeless  one.  When  they  returned  to  Paris 
after  a  summer  of  expense  so  great  that  he  felt  he 
must  positively  force  the  issue  of  finances  with  Mrs. 
Eversley,  or  else  announce  to  her  that  he  and  Monica 
must  make  other  less  expensive  arrangements — his 
book  was  still  where  it  had  been  that  spring:  some- 
times in  the  clouds,  sometimes  in  the  poetic  sighing  of 
the  sea,  sometimes  in  the  rings  of  his  cigar  smoke, 
but  most  times  nowhere  at  all. 


271 


CHAPTER  V 

HARDING  found  it  difficult  to  secure  an  interview 
with  Mrs.  Eversley,  in  spite  of  his  resolve  to  force  one. 
He  suspected  that  she  was  trying  to  elude  him,  for 
he  had  dropped  enough  hints — as  a  kind  of  mental 
clearing  of  the  throat — to  put  her  on  her  guard.  It 
became  a  case  of  a  hunter  tracking  a  wary  bird  already 
acquainted  with  the  gun.  He  preferred  not  to  have 
the  talk  take  place  in  Monica's  presence,  and  he 
seldom  saw  Mrs.  Eversley  alone,  and  then  at  most 
inauspicious  moments.  That  her  condition  of  health 
since  their  return  was  really  serious  was  privately 
made  known  to  him  and  Monica  by  the  doctor,  who 
hinted  that,  in  addition  to  other  complications,  Mrs. 
Eversley's  use  of  cosmetics  had  affected  her  blood. 
Yet  she  went  out  more  than  ever,  as  though  social 
amusement  helped  to  dull  her  anxiety.  That  she 
worried  about  herself — or  about  something — became 
evident  enough.  The  ravages  were  only  superficially 
disguised  by  a  visit  to  the  Institut  de  Beaute,  from 
which  she  emerged  glowing  like  a  Dead  Sea  apple. 
In  spite  of  his  growing  impatience  with  her,  Harding 
was  moved  by  these  struggles  of  hers  against  age  and 
malady.  She  spent  her  mornings  in  her  room,  where, 
too,  she  frequently  had  her  luncheon  served,  and  it 
was  a  kind  of  barricade  he  could  scarcely  break 


272  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

through.  She  had  to  have  a  great  deal  of  repose,  it 
seemed,  and  the  dear  sympathetic  doctor — as  she 
pointedly  informed  her  son-in-law — had  particularly 
warned  her  against  the  effects  of  agitation.  The  rest 
of  the  time  was  consumed  in  hastening  to  teas  or 
dinners,  from  which  she  returned  "  so  tired  "  that  it 
appeared  almost  brutal  to  engage  her  in  a  serious 
business  talk. 

She  never  asked  him  to  accompany  her  out  now,  and 
it  appeared  in  line  with  her  policy  of  avoidance.  Yet 
another  reason  was  supplied  him  by  Buttercup,  whom 
he  met  by  chance  one  day  shortly  after  his  return  to 
Paris.  She  told  him,  with  some  amusement,  that 
Mrs.  Eversley  and  Percy  had  patched  up  their  quarrel, 
and  she  was  quite  jealous  of  the  flirtation  between 
them.  She  said  it  with  a  laugh  which  told  him  how 
indifferent  she  was  over  rivals  in  Percy's  favour. 
Harding,  on  his  way  home  after  this  meeting,  wondered 
how  much  Monica  shared  Buttercup's  equanimity  on 
the  subject  of  husbands'  attentions  to  other  women. 
He  did  not  think  Monica  jealous,  as,  indeed,  she  had 
little  reason  to  be;  but  about  her  had  gathered  the 
atmosphere  of  marital  neglect.  It  showed  itself  in  a 
slight  increase  of  dignity  with  him,  in  less  responsive- 
ness to  his  kiss — a  little  perfunctory  at  times,  for  his 
mind  was  preoccupied.  Her  manner  seemed  to  imply, 
too,  he  said  to  himself,  that  she  held  he  wasted  his 
days,  and,  half  convinced  this  was  so,  he  accepted 
few  invitations.  It  had  been,  in  great  measure,  Mrs. 
Eversley  who  had  fostered  his  taste  for  society.  Going 


THE  TEST  273 

out  had  tended  to  flatter  his  vanity.  As  much  as  he 
personally  condemned  The  Horns  of  the  Altar,  it  pleased 
him  to  have  people  praise  his  work;  it  picked  up  his 
flagging  belief  in  his  talents.  But  such  complimentary 
allusions  to  the  book  were  generally  accompanied  by 
a  question  when  a  new  novel  was  to  appear.  The 
query  had  the  effect  of  casting  gloom  on  his  spirit  for 
hours  afterwards. 

Reacting  from  this  mood  one  afternoon,  he  lost 
patience  with  Mrs.  Eversley's  evasions,  and  deter- 
minedly rapped  at  her  boudoir  door. 

Mrs.  Eversley  was  at  her  desk,  evidently  waiting  to 
go  out.  She  was  glancing  over  a  little  note-book,  in 
which  she  had  jotted  down  stray  remarks  of  people 
to  serve  as  conversational  aids.  Most  of  them  were 
old  sayings  of  Percy's;  some  were  Harding's,  although 
there  were  fewer  of  these.  They  pleased  her  less — 
they  hadn't  Percy's  dear,  delightful  sparkle;  and, 
indeed,  Julian's  recent  sayings  she  considered  not 
worth  using  at  all.  Marriage  had  certainly  made  him 
dull,  she  often  reflected.  His  inability  to  furnish  her 
with  effective  little  speeches  was  one  thing  she  had 
against  him  these  days. 

She  smiled,  forcedly  he  thought,  on  seeing  him 
enter;  but  she  calmly  replaced  her  note-book  in  the 
desk  drawer,  remarking: 

"  Oh,  it's  you,  Julian?  I  was  just  looking  over  my 
engagements  for  the  afternoon,  and  I  find  if  I  don't 
get  off  at  once,  I  sha'n't  manage  half  I  have  on  hand. 
Be  a  dear,  and  see  if  the  motor's  ready.  I've  rung 

T 


274  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

three  times  for  Simone — I  can't  imagine  what  has 
become  of  her.  What  a  bore  these  teas  are,  but  people 
are  so  sensitive  if  one  doesn't  turn  up."  And  she 
sighed  as  she  rose,  and,  taking  up  her  hat,  moved 
to  the  mirror.  Her  air  was  that  of  a  fond  mother-in- 
law  who  supposed  he  had  stepped  in  for  a  casual, 
ill-timed  chat  or  to  borrow  something  to  read.  She 
always  had  the  latest  novels  to  skim  through. 

"  But  it  is  only  a  little  after  three,"  he  answered, 
"  and  the  motor  hasn't  come  yet.  So  I  wonder  if  you 
can't  spare  me  a  few  moments —  " 

She  interrupted  him.  "  But  I  said  three.  I  hadn't 
any  idea  it  was  so  late.  What  tiresome  creatures 
servants  are — they  don't  pay  the  least  attention  to 
orders.  Simone  is  the  worst  of  all,  never  about  and 
always  grumbling.  It  really  is  too  hard  on  me,  in 
my  state  of  health,  to  have  to  endure  their  carelessness. 
Nobody  has  any  consideration."  And  with  another 
more  pathetic  sigh,  she  pressed  the  button  to  summon 
her  maid,  as  if  to  show  how  discourteous  it  was  of 
him  not  to  do  her  bidding. 

But  he  had  no  intention  of  being  thus  lightly  dis- 
missed to-day. 

"There  must  have  been  some  mistake,"  he  observed. 
"  I  asked  downstairs  when  you  were  going  out,  and 
was  told  the  motor  had  been  ordered  for  four.  So, 
as  you  will  have  to  wait  a  little  while  any  way,  you 
can  surely  give  me  a  moment  or  so.  It  is  a  matter  of 
considerable  importance  to  me,  or  I  should  not  bother 


THE  TEST  275 

you.  You  know,  I  tried  to  see  you  earlier,  but  Simone 
said  you  were  dressing." 

"  Of  course,  I  could  hardly  go  out  otherwise." 
And  her  small,  vexed  laugh  concealed  some  nervous- 
ness. Her  voice  had  grown  a  good  deal — was  almost 
out  of  its  teens — since  Julian  had  become  one  of  the 
family.  He  had  less  reason  to  find  its  sweetness 
cloying.  "  And  '  a  matter  of  importance  '  !  That 
sounds  so  depressing.  Really,  Julian,"  and,  mastering 
herself,  she  put  on  an  air  of  playful  reproach,  "  I  do 
think  you  might  spare  me  such  an  ordeal  to-day — 
when  I'm  feeling  particularly  badly.  It  won't  leave 
me  strength  for  anything.  Can't  you  wait  until  I 
have  one  of  my  good  days.  Sometimes  I  think  you 
and  Monica  don't  quite  realize  what  an  invalid  I  am." 

"  Yes,  I  know  you're  not  well,"  he  said,  yielding  to 
his  feeling  of  annoyance,  "  still,  if  you  have  strength 
for  teas  this  afternoon,  I  should  think  you  might 
bear  a  short  business  talk.  It's  about  our  staying  on 
with  you.  It  is  pleasant  for  us,  of  course;  but  you 
and  I  have  never  come  to  an  arrangement  about  it. 
I'm  sorry  to  trouble  you,  but  I  simply  must  know- 
where  we  stand." 

"  But  I  can't  tell  you  such  things  offhand,"  she 
returned  languidly.  "  I  have  such  a  poor  head  for 
figures.  And  I  have  assured  you  all  along  that  I  con- 
sider you  and  Monica  my  guests,  that  you  should  look 
on  the  house  as  your  home.  I  love  to  have  you  with 
me,  and  it  all  costs  me  so  little  " — as  indeed  it  had 

T2 


276  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

the  last  year — "  living  the  way  we  do.  It  would  hurt 
me  somehow  to  put  it  on  the  horrid,  formal  basis 
you  propose.  If  it  eases  your  foolish  pride,  Julian, 
why  just  pay  a  trifling  bill  now  and  then  when  my 
cheque-book  isn't  at  hand,  or  I  am  out,  or  something 
like  that.  Cut-and-dried  business  arrangements  are 
such  a  bore." 

As  she  spoke  she  contemplated  her  image  in  the 
cheval  glass,  a  hatpin  in  one  hand,  while  searching 
the  proper  spot  to  pierce  her  new  Virot  creation.  She 
was  wondering  if  Percy  would  approve  of  her  costume 
— he  had  such  critical  taste.  He  had  promised  to  be 
at  one  of  the  teas  she  was  going  to,  and  it  was  her 
main  reason  for  venturing  out  that  afternoon,  for  she 
really  felt  quite  ill.  She  knew  she  looked  it — that  her 
eyes  were  dull — indeed,  they  were  so  dim  that,  to 
study  herself,  she  had  to  stand  quite  close  to  the 
mirror,  and  even  then  the  effect  was  rather  blurred. 

"  It  is  extremely  kind  of  you  to  put  it  that  way," 
Harding  returned,  "  but  it  isn't  fair  to  you.  As  to 
paying  a  bill  now  and  then  " — and  his  tone  was  a  little 
sarcastic  over  her  slighting  dismissal  of  those  he  had 
settled — "  I  have  met  a  number  so  far.  It  amounts 
to  a  good  many  thousand  francs,  as  you  will  see,"  and 
he  drew  out  a  slip  of  paper  on  which  he  had  made  a 
list  of  them.  "  Far  more,  in  fact,  than  I  can  afford." 

"  But  why  have  you  done  it  ?  I'm  sure  I  never 
asked  you  to,"  she  said  indifferently. 

"  No,  perhaps  not.  But  I  preferred  to  do  so  rather 
than  be  annoyed  by  constant  dunning.  I'm  sorry, 


THE  TEST  277 

but  the  state  of  my  bank  account  won't  permit  of 
matters  remaining  like  this.  To  be  plain,  I  have 
almost  kept  the  establishment  going,  and,  besides, 
have  settled  many  of  your  personal  accounts." 

"It  isn't  true!"  she  cried  with  hastily  assumed 
haughtiness.  "  It  seems  to  me  I'm  always  paying 
some  stupid  bill  or  other.  And  if  you  would  settle  my 
accounts  now  and  then — with  your  silly  American 
notions  about  not  keeping  awful  tradespeople  waiting, 
as  everybody  does  in  Europe — it  isn't  very  nice  of 
you  to  cast  it  at  me  like  this.  And  I've  tried  my  best 
to  be  nice  to  you,  to  make  you  feel  at  home,  and — 
and  been  most  generous  in  fact — I  don't  think  you 
appreciate  all  I  have  done."  She  was  losing  her 
temper,  which  did  not  often  happen  to  her,  but  she 
clung  to  her  habitual  fictions  as  if  they  were  facts. 
Perhaps  she  would  not  have  brought  issues  to  this 
point,  for  it  was  not  clever,  if  she  had  not  been  ner- 
vously unstrung;  her  heart  troubled  her.  There  was 
an  unpleasant  numbness — which  came  more  and  more 
often  now — as  though  her  circulation  were  arrested. 

But  Harding's  own  nerves  were  none  of  the  best, 
and  his  temper  met  the  slight  flare  of  her  own.  "I 
haven't  said  that  you  have  not  been  generous,"  he 
answered.  "  I  only  speak  of  the  accounts  because  it 
is  right  that  they  should  be  cleared  up.  I  am  not  a 
rich  man,  and  I  have  to  take  some  thought  for  the 
future." 

"  But  you  must  have  enough  to  live  on,"  she  ex- 
claimed agitatedly.  "It  was,  of  course,  what  I  sup- 


278  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

posed — what  you  gave  me  to  understand — when  you 
proposed  to  my  daughter.  You  don't  mean,  then, 
that  you  are  poor,  that  Monica  has  married  a  man 
who  can't  support  her?  It  isn't  true — it  can't  be 
true — that  you  haven't  any  money,  with  your  book 
and  all  that.  Authors  make  thousands  and  thousands 
out  of  writing  these  days;  I  know  they  do.  And  Julia 
Vanderhurst  told  me  you  were  successful,  and  Madame 
de  Kansa  prophesied  how  remunerative  your  work 
would  be  ...  or  that  was  what  you  pretended  she  said. 
If  it  isn't  so,  and  you  have  deceived  us  all,  you  are 
nothing  more  than  a  fortune-hunter.  But  I  don't 
believe  you.  It's  just  that  you  are  miserly,  love 
money,  like  all  Americans,  and  begrudge  the  little  you 
have  spent  while  here.  I  should  think  you'd  be  ashamed 
to  mention  those  trifling  bills !  "  And  she  regarded 
him,  struggling  with  her  hysterical  tears  that  meant 
ruin  to  a  brand-new  complexion,  bought  especially 
dear,  since  it  exceeded  the  number  of  enamellings 
which  science  pronounced  safe.  She  considered  herself 
insulted,  and  it  quite  warranted,  she  felt,  the  cutting 
reply. 

"  I  haven't  said  I  couldn't  support  my  family," 
he  returned  with  a  flush.  "  Although  we  may  differ 
about  what  is  proper  support.  As  to  being  a  fortune- 
hunter,  it  seems  to  me  facts  dispose  of  any  such  accu- 
sation. I  knew  before  I  married  Monica  that  she 
had  nothing,  and  that  she  had  renounced  such  fortune  as 
she  possessed.  Who  is  enjoying  the  income  that 
belongs  to  her  by  her  father's  will?  " 


THE  TEST  279 

Mrs.  Eversley  pressed  her  hands  to  her  heart — 
partly  as  dramatic  resort — but  she  experienced  a 
strange  sensation  there:  "You  are  killing  me,"  she 
cried;  "  you  have  no  right  to  come  to  my  room  and 
behave  in  this  cruel  way.  I'll  have  Monica  here  to 
protect  me  against  you."  And,  wildly  pressing  the 
bell,  she  ordered  Simone — whose  prompt  appearance 
suggested  that  she  had  been  standing  outside — to  tell 
her  daughter  to  come  at  once.  Then  her  strength 
failing  her,  she  sank  on  the  couch  without  regard  for 
her  Virot  hat. 

She  broke  into  sobs  as  Monica  entered  the  boudoir. 
Monica  paused  a  moment  in  surprise  to  regard  the 
two,  then  went  to  her  mother.  "  What  is  the  matter  ?" 
she  inquired  with  marked  concern. 

"  Julian  has  been  making  a  scene,"  her  mother 
breathed  hysterically.  "  He  has  attacked  me  out- 
rageously, and  wants  the  money  you  let  me  have  for 
my  little  comforts.  He  has  shown  no  consideration 
for  me.  I  am  ill,  ill  over  it  all.  He  knows  I  am  ill, 
yet  he  hasn't  spared  me,"  and  she  clung  to  her  daughter, 
who  was  bending  over  her  trying  to  soothe  her. 

"  But  Julian  quite  understands  that,"  Monica  said. 
"  I  told  him  about  the  arrangement  I  had  made  with 
you.  You  might  see,  Julian,  that  my  mother  isn't  in 
a  condition  to  have  painful  talks.  It  would  have  been 
better,  wouldn't  it,  if  you  had  discussed  the  subject 
with  me,  instead." 

She  looked  rather  reproachfully  at  him,  for,  judging 
from  her  mother's  collapse,  he  had  not  been  quite 


280  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

considerate;  he  knew  that  the  doctor  had  warned 
them  against  the  effect  of  agitation.  She  had  grown 
more  tender  to  Mrs.  Eversley  since  learning  of  her 
precarious  state  of  health.  Harding  thought  his  wife 
unjust  towards  him. 

"  My  only  reason  for  coming  here,"  he  answered, 
"  was  to  ask  for  a  settlement  of  our  accounts.  It  was 
really  necessary  that  I  should."  Distaste  held  him 
from  saying  more. 

"My  heart  is  troubling  me  so!"  moaned  Mrs. 
Eversley  like  a  stricken  ringdove.  Monica  and  Simone 
helped  her  to  bed,  and  they  gave  her  a  dose  of  the 
medicine  which  the  "  sympathetic  "  doctor — perhaps 
he  had  more  sympathy  than  conscience — had  left  to 
be  used  in  such  emergencies.  After  an  hour  her 
hysteria  subsided,  and  the  crisis  being  thus  happily 
weathered,  she  remained  alone,  having  dispatched 
Monica  to  write  some  twenty  notes  and  Harding  to 
give  some  forty  telephone  calls. 

In  the  middle  of  the  night  Mrs.  Eversley  suddenly 
awoke.  She  had  had  a  nightmare  about  her  eyes: 
she  wanted  light,  light,  all  the  light  possible.  It 
seemed  to  her  terrified  nerves  that  even  the  little 
night-lamp  on  her  table  glowed  dimly.  Stretching 
out  her  hand,  she  turned  the  electric  switch.  Even 
then  the  room  did  not  appear  as  bright  as  usual. 
She  sat  up  in  bed,  shivering  with  fear.  Suppose  she 
were  going  blind?  The  very  thought  iced  the  blood 
in  her  veins.  How  could  she  judge,  how  measure  her 
misfortune,  thus  alone  in  the  night?  She  slipped 


THE  TEST  281 

weakly  out  of  bed  and  tottered  towards  her  mirror, 
instinctively  seeking  a  glimpse  of  the  object  she  knew 
best  and  loved  best  in  all  the  world.  Whatever  else 
had  been  false,  it  had  remained  true — to  its  own 
standards.  But  how  horrible  she  looked!  Literally 
a  ghost  of  herself!  She  was  old  and  ugly — ah,  but 
she  was  undressed ! 

She  rang  for  Simone,  and,  while  waiting,  went  to 
the  wardrobe  and  got  out  the  new  dress  with  which 
she  had  planned  to  fascinate  Percy  Colston  that 
afternoon.  Yes,  it  was  a  lovely  creation;  she  would 
surely  look  lovely  in  it.  She  still  held  the  gown 
caressingly  in  her  hands  when  Simone  entered  with 
frowning  brow  and  towzled  hair. 

"  Help  me  on  with  this,"  Mrs.  Eversley  ordered. 

"  But,  madame,  it  is  three  o'clock  in  the  morning!  " 
Simone  protested  in  sleepy  indignation. 

"  What  does  it  matter  what  time  it  is?  I  want  to 
see  how  I  look  in  it." 

"  This  is  too  much,  to  be  called  out  of  bed  in  the 
middle  of  the  night  for  no  reason  at  all!  And  my 
wages  owing  for  months  at  that!  I  give  you  my 
eight  days'  notice,  and  I  promise  you  that  if  my 
wages  aren't  paid  then,  you'll  have  to  come  in  your 
new  dress  and  settle  with  me  before  the  commissary 
of  police!  "  And  Simone  left  the  room,  banging  the 
door  after  her. 

Dazed  by  the  violence  of  the  scene  and  the  threat 
with  which  it  had  been  closed,  Mrs.  Eversley  reverted 
to  her  original  thought — her  dress,  her  appearance. 


282  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

With  trembling  hands  she  struggled  into  the  gown, 
and  then  tried  to  put  a  little  order  in  her  dishevelled 
hair.  It  was  not  as  it  should  be,  she  knew,  but  she 
could  not  do  better,  thus  ill,  alone,  and  betrayed. 
Once  more  she  approached  the  glass. 

Why  was  it  so  misty?     Was  it  the  light — or  her 

eyes?     And  she  pressed  her  face  closer. 

****** 

They  found  her  next  morning,  crouched  there,  her 
rouged  lips  touching  their  image  in  the  glass;  death 
had  taken  her  while  she  knelt — a  worshipper  of  herself 
to  the  last. 


283 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  settlement  of  Mrs.  Eversley's  affairs  took  a  good  deal 
of  time.  At  the  news  of  her  demise,  bills,  endless  bills, 
as  it  seemed  to  Harding,  poured  in.  Even  before  the 
funeral,  a  writ  on  the  furniture — a  considerable  asset 
— was  taken  out. 

Of  Monica's  fortune,  when  Mrs.  Eversley's  debts 
were  paid,  only  a  few  hundred  pounds  remained. 

At  the  Hotel  Drouot,  where  the  Eversley  sale  took 
place,  Percy  Colston  was  one  of  the  largest  bidders.  He 
had  a  sentiment  about  the  furniture,  it  appeared,  for  it 
had  mostly  been  selected  on  his  advice. 

As  to  Mrs.  Eversley's  misappropriation  of  her 
daughter's  money,  Harding  could  never  bring  himself 
to  speak  to  Monica,  after  he  first  acquainted  her  with 
the  fact.  And  then  she  had  received  the  news  in 
silence — that  strange  silence  which  often  puzzled  him 
and  wrapped  her  in  a  dignity  peculiarly  her  own.  But 
her  eyes  had  deepened  with  what  was  pain  or  pride,  or 
both  ;  and  he  noticed  that  from  this  moment  a  new 
expression  stamped  itself  on  her  face.  Sometimes  he 
thought  the  discovery  had  hardened  her  a  little,  though, 
at  other  times,  he  told  himself  that  it  was  the  summon- 
ing of  more  resolution  to  combat  in  herself  this  new 
proof  of  unfortunate  ancestry.  At  all  events,  Monica 
now  realized  that  he  had  been  driven  by  absolute 


284  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

necessity  to  that  interview  which  had  so  disturbed 
Mrs.  Eversley  as  to  precipitate  her  death ;  and  that  very 
disturbance  had  been  caused,  not  by  Harding's  words, 
but  by  guilt  of  conscience. 

He  was,  himself,  inclined  to  think  the  revelation 
went  to  confirm  the  ancestral  theories  of  his  book. 
Mrs.  Eversley  had,  no  doubt,  inherited  her  extrava- 
gance from  Mrs.  Perdoe — and  the  latter 's  lack  of 
integrity  that  had  led  at  last  to  crime. 

The  Hardings  took  a  small  furnished  apartment 
with  a  studio  in  the  rue  Guenegaud,  a  short,  quiet 
street  lying  between  the  Boulevard  St.  Germain  and 
the  quays.  From  the  rear  windows  they  had  a  pic- 
turesque view  of  the  older,  unfashionable  Paris,  and  the 
few  things  saved  from  the  sale  of  Mrs.  Eversley's  be- 
longings helped  to  give  their  home  a  comfortable, 
attractive  air.  It  was  far  from  the  Etoile  district, 
where  most  of  their  acquaintance  dwelt,  and  the  abode 
was  modest  compared  with  the  Neuilly  background. 
It  left  a  good  deal  for  the  world  to  surmise  as  to  his 
changed  fortune,  and  Harding,  after  enjoying  the 
reputation  of  successful  authorship,  felt  somewhat 
sensitive  at  the  difference.  But  he  had  abandoned  social 
ambitions  by  this  time.  He  had  discovered  that 
Americans  in  Paris  talk  about  books,  and  borrow  books, 
and  subscribe  for  library  books,  but  never  buy  books, 
so  that  his  social  activities  were  not  commercially 
worth  to  him  the  price  of  his  cabs. 

He  revived  his  former  intimacy  with  Nicolls  whom, 
since  his  marriage,  he  had  seen  less  often.     The  English- 


THE  TEST  285 

man  had  called  rarely  at  Neuilly;  for  he  had  no  great 
liking  for  Mrs.  Eversley  and  her  set ;  but  he  yielded  now 
to  his  friend's  pressing  invitations  and  gradually  fell 
into  the  habit  of  dropping  in  frequently  of  an  evening 
or  informally  for  dinner.  He  was  an  agreeable  talker 
and  brought  with  him  an  atmosphere  of  outside 
interests  that  relieved  Harding' s  life  of  some  of  its 
present  dullness. 

When  Elsie  Fitzgerald  was  at  the  house,  too,  they 
had  unusually  pleasant  musical  evenings.  Harding 
fancied  that  mutual  attachment  would  come  of  the 
Englishman's  contacts  with  the  Irish  girl,  for  she 
was  bright  and  attractive,  and  Nicolls  good-looking, 
gentlemanly,  and  in  the  position  to  marry.  Miss 
Fitzgerald,  who  had  an  engagement  at  the  Opera 
Comique,  where  she  had  scored  a  success  in  a  secondary 
part  of  a  new  piece  by  Chelard,  was  amiable  about 
singing,  and  it  was  through  his  wife's  accompaniments 
on  the  piano  that  Harding  discovered  how  well  Monica 
played.  It  was  something  of  a  surprise,  for  he  had 
not  suspected  the  talent  in  her;  and  it  suggested  a 
new  side  to  her  nature.  The  expression  that  passed 
into  her  face  as  she  sat  at  the  keyboard  told  him  of 
abeyant  emotions,  and  he  asked  himself,  as  he  studied 
her,  if  he  had  ever  called  out  her  depths.  Her  love  had 
always  struck  him  as  touched  less  with  passion  than 
maternal  sentiment.  That  Monica  was  conscien- 
tiously trying  to  fill  the  role  of  a  moral  rescuer  some- 
times a  little  irritated  and  humiliated  him.  His  appeal 
of  a  supposed  need  of  her  had  won  her  to  marry  him ; 


286  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

no  doubt  it  had  flattered  her  woman's  vanity;  but  he 
did  not  care  to  have  her  take  it  too  seriously.  It  left 
him  •with  a  feeling  that  their  relation  lacked  fullness, 
was  indeed  a  bit  prosaic. 

Yet,  in  some  respects,  the  change  in  their  life  brought 
them  nearer.  At  Neuilly  she  had  been  a  good  deal 
under  the  shadow  of  her  mother,  had  spent  much  of 
her  time  with  the  child,  and  had  had  no  domestic 
responsibilities.  Although  she  lacked  housekeeping 
training,  she  showed  her  competence  in  running  the 
apartment  on  a  careful,  economic  scale.  This  orderli- 
ness and  care  in  promptly  meeting  bills  was,  perhaps, 
her  protest  against  her  mother's  extravagance,  perhaps 
an  effort  to  prove  her  character  in  all  respects  a  reaction 
against  dubious  antecedents.  Harding  felt  still  that  he 
did  not  wholly  understand  her  nature,  for  there  was 
always  reserve  about  her  he  had  never  broken  down. 
Sometimes  he  thought  it  was  his  own  fault.  At  all 
events,  he  was  unable  to  question  her  about  many 
things. 

As  the  winter  came  on,  Harding's  health  troubled 
him  a  good  deal;  he  had  a  bronchial  attack  which, 
with  the  humidity  of  Paris  at  that  season,  and  the 
weakening  effect  of  his  cough,  made  writing  difficult. 
Yet  he  had  signed  a  contract  with  Bentley  and  Com- 
pany to  deliver  a  new  manuscript  for  early  spring,  and 
it,  as  well  as  the  looming  need  of  money,  incited  him  to 
struggle  with  the  uncongenial  novel  he  had  finally 
sketched  out.  To  keep  up  his  strength  he  depended 
more  on  artificial  stimulation  than  formerly.  He  had 


THE  TEST  287 

always  been  an  inveterate  smoker — he  had  acquired 
the  habit  in  concentrating  when  there  was  hurried  copy 
to  get  down  in  the  rush  work  of  journalistic  days — and 
it  further  irritated  his  lungs. 

Monica  showed  concern  about  his  state  of  health, 
and  one  day  she  remonstrated  over  his  lack  of  care 
of  himself.  Her  suggestion  that  he  smoked  too  much 
seemed  justified — his  study  was  saturated  with  tobacco 
fumes.  But  he  received  the  comment  rather  irritably. 

"  I  can't  help  it,"  he  replied.  "  It's  impossible  to 
fix  my  mind  on  my  work  if  I  don't.  I'm  not  feeling 
particularly  well,  and  it  quiets  my  nerves.  When  the 
manuscript  is  off  my  hands  I'll  give  it  up,  perhaps,  and 
take  more  rest."  And  he  sighed  impatiently,  for  he 
was  sick  of  what  he  called  "  Monica's  novel."  Life 
wasn't  just  then  conducive  to  optimistic  sentiments, 
and  the  cheerful  tone  he  was  adopting  in  the  story  had 
its  irony. 

"  Why  not  at  least  give  yourself  a  few  days  of  rest — 
it  will  freshen  you  for  work  again.  You  don't  look 
well,  Julian,  and  it  troubles  me." 

"  But  I  can't;  every  day  counts  now.  I  almost  wish 
I  hadn't  made  a  contract  with  Bentley.  It  hangs 
over  my  head  uncomfortably,  the  feeling  that  I  have  to 
get  a  manuscript  done  in  a  given  time.  Talk  about 
the  uneasy  head  that  wears  a  crown.  A  book  on  the 
crown  is  ten  times  worse." 

"  You  never  told  me  that  you  had  signed  a  contract 
with  them,"  she  observed.  "  Was  it  necessary  to  bind 
yourself  that  way?  " 


288  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

"  Yes,  because  I  wanted  money.  Hart,  the  junior 
member  of  the  firm  who  did  most  to  float  the  first  book 
— you  ought  to  have  heard  him  descr  be  what  he  called 
their  '  street-car  ads,'  and  other  devices  to  thrust  it 
down  people's  throats" — and  his  voice  was  sarcastic — 
"  passed  through  Paris  last  September,  and  called  on 
me.  So  I  took  the  occasion  to  demand  a  thousand 
dollars  down,  to  clinch  the  bargain  between  us  for  a 
next  novel.  Of  course,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  that,  I 
shouldn't  have  saddled  myself  with  the  contract." 

She  considered  a  moment.  "If  it  affects  your 
work  and  you  feel  it  a  burden,  wouldn't  it  be  better  to 
return  the  money  and  free  yourself  ?  " 

He  laughed  shortly.  "  Yes,  perhaps,  if  there  was 
any  of  it  to  return.  I  applied  it  to  renting  the  apart- 
ment, as  it  happened.  I  doubt,  anyway,  that  they 
would  consent  to  relieve  me.  It  isn't  business,  and 
Bentley  and  Company  is  nothing  if  not  that."  And  he 
recalled  Hart's  matter-of-fact  countenance  and  talk  on 
the  saleable  side  of  manuscripts.  He  had,  like  Lochin- 
var,  come  out  of  the  West,  bringing  with  him  its 
breezy  style  of  doing  business.  It  was  his  boast  he  had 
put  life  into  the  New  York  book  trade. 

Harding  regretted  the  discouraged  mood  that  had 
caused  him  to  speak  of  his  financial  straits.  So  far  he 
had  kept  it  to  himself,  partly  from  pride,  partly  because 
he  had  wished  to  avoid  for  Monica  his  own  anxieties 
about  the  future. 

"  But  I  think  it  is  important  that  the  money  be 
returned,"  she  replied.  "  You  are  not  well,  and  the 


THE  TEST  289 

contract  weighs  on  your  mind.  You  know  I  have  a 
little  money  of  my  own  still,  and  we  can  manage 
through  my  taking  up  enamelling  again.  There  is 
always  a  certain  demand  for  my  work,"  she  added. 
She  spoke  without  complacence  which,  perhaps,  might 
have  had  its  excuse,  for  she  was  well  known  in  her  art, 
and  it  had  always  been  easy  to  dispose  of  her  things 
at  flattering  prices.  It  had  been  one  of  her  sacrifices 
that  she  had  abandoned  her  beautiful  craft  in  marrying 
him. 

"  But  I  won't  have  it,"  he  said  with  a  flush.  "  You 
have  enough  on  your  shoulders  as  it  is.  Besides,  the 
whole  proposition  is  humiliating.  I  shall  finish  the 
book  in  time,  so  don't  think  any  more  about  it." 

"  Why  should  it  humiliate  you  ?  "  she  returned, 
earnestly.  "  You  are  run  down,  you  need  rest.  The 
house  almost  cares  for  itself  now,  and  I  am  strong.  I 
have  plenty  of  time  for  the  enamelling.  It  is  agreeable, 
easy  work,  and  not  a  tax  on  the  brain  like  writing. 
Your  health  and  peace  of  mind  are  of  more  consequence 
than  your  pride.  Send  the  money  to  Bentley,  and  I 
promise  that  you  need  have  no  anxiety.  There  are 
ways  to  recoup,  if  necessary.  It  is  the  proper  solution, 
and  I  wish  you  would  let  me,  Julian."  And  she  laid  a 
hand  persuadingly  on  his  arm  as  he  sat  frowning, 
offended,  at  his  desk.  Her  voice  was  a  little  hesitating, 
as  though  she  feared  to  offend  him  by  seeming  to 
parade  her  sense  of  resource.  He  had  always  had  the 
half  f eeling  that,  in  formally  leaving  to  him  the  mastery 
of  their  life,  there  had  been  in  her  an  attitude  of  waiting, 

u 


2QO  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

the  consciousness  of  ability  to  face  the  issues  of  their 
married  existence  when  the  time  should  come. 

"  I  won't  hear  of  it,"  he  reiterated  emphatically. 
"  There  is  no  real  reason  for  such  drudgery  being  laid 
on  you.  I'm  not  ill — only  a  bit  run  down.  It  would 
worry  me  far  more  to  think  of  you  toiling  to  make  ends 
meet,  than  to  finish  the  story  under  pressure.  So 
please  don't  speak  of  it  again." 

She  lingered,  with  a  look  of  disappointment  on  her 
face. 

"  I  thought,"  she  said,  after  a  moment,  "  when  you 
asked  me  to  marry  you,  that  I  was  to  be  allowed  to 
help." 

"  Yes,  but  that  isn't  the  kind  of  help  I  meant.  I 
didn't  propose  that  you  were  to  work  for  us  both. 
What  I  wanted  most  was  your  love."  He  drew  her  to 
him,  and  kissed  her  with  some  emotion.  How  generous 
of  her  to  have  wished  it.  Yet  what  did  she  think  of  him 
seriously  to  propose  it  ? 

The  goad  of  this  reflection  caused  him  to  throw  him- 
self in  his  work  for  the  next  few  days  with  redoubled 
energy. 

He  vowed  that  he  would  get  the  story  done  by  the 
period  contracted  for,  no  matter  what  the  effort  cost 
him. 


29 1 


CHAPTER  VII 

WHETHER  or  not  Nicolls  guessed  the  state  of  his  affairs, 
Harding  did  not  know.  The  Englishman  came  once 
or  twice  a  week  to  the  house,  and  seemed  to  take  pains 
to  be  entertaining  and  show  his  friendliness.  His 
manner  implied  a  willingness  to  be  of  any  service  he 
could,  but  Harding  ignored  the  opportunity  to  accept 
a  loan  of  money.  He  had  no  wish  to  put  himself  under 
that  obligation  and,  indeed,  met  it  in  a  manner  to 
negative  the  idea  that  he  required  help  of  any  sort. 
There  was  already  enough  contrast  between  their 
present  conditions,  for  Nicolls,  besides  enjoying  health, 
had  grown  prosperous.  He  owned  a  share  in  the 
paper  he  edited,  and  he  was  sent  on  important  journal- 
istic missions  that  enhanced  his  standing  in  Paris  and 
elsewhere.  Harding  could  not  question  that  Nicolls 
was  a  warm,  sincere  friend,  yet  he  had  the  growing 
idea  that  his  frequent  visits  were  due  to  a  lingering 
sentiment  about  Monica.  The  two  were  manifestly 
congenial,  and  with  a  renewal  of  their  old  acquaintance 
had  grown  up  a  sense  of  mutual  understanding  and 
confidence  that  was  expressed  in  their  air  with  each 
other  rather  than  in  any  words.  He  sometimes 
wondered  if  any  regret  for  the  Englishman  passed 
across  Monica's  heart,  yet  he  was  not  jealous;  and  he 
left  them  together  of  an  evening,  to  shut  himself  up  in 

U2 


2Q3  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

his  study,  glad  that  his  wife  had  someone  to  entertain 
her.  The  question  of  trusting  them  never  even  pre- 
sented itself  to  his  mind.  They  were  both  embodi- 
ments of  correctness. 

He  went  to  his  study  a  little  ostentatiously,  however, 
on  some  evenings  when  Nicolls  was  in,  for  that  at 
least  tended  to  remove  the  impression  as  to  his  neglect- 
ing work.  Nicolls  probably  wondered  why  he  had  not 
brought  out  another  story.  Harding  had  never 
mentioned  to  him  the  fate  of  The  Labyrinth  of 
Life. 

In  spite  of  pressure  of  time,  he  could  not  overcome 
his  fastidiousness,  and  he  wrote  and  rewrote,  tore  up 
sheets,  began  a  chapter  over,  until  often  he  lost  all  con- 
fidence in  himself.  He  did  not  see  things  clearly,  and 
it  was  all  against  his  own  convictions  about  life  as  he 
had  found  it.  He  blamed  himself  for  want  of  real 
education,  the  higher  training  that  went  with  higher 
art.  After  all,  he  had  spent  his  best  years  in  drudgery, 
and  all  he  was  capable  of,  he  sometimes  told  himself 
morosely,  was  work  of  the  drudgery  sort. 

He  was  annoyed,  yet  relieved,  one  day,  by  receiving 
a  letter  from  his  publisher.  It  returned  a  cheque 
which  had  been  sent  by  Monica,  saying  that  the  house 
refused  to  free  Harding  from  his  contract,  but  that  they 
would  extend  the  date  of  publication  of  the  novel. 
They  deprecated  the  delay,  but,  Mr.  Hart  added,  the 
story  would  no  doubt  be  the  better  for  the  extra  time 
devoted  to  it.  Harding's  first  impulse  was  to  find 
fault  with  his  wife  for  what  she  had  done  without  con- 


THE  TEST  293 

suiting  him,  but  reflection  made  him  judge  it  as  an  act 
of  concern  about  him,  and  he  welcomed  the  added 
months  allowed  for  his  task. 

He  thought  he  could  justifiably  indulge  in  a  little 
rest,  of  which  he  was  actually  in  need.  He  had 
taken  scarcely  any  exercise,  and  he  went  out  now  for 
afternoon  strolls.  He  encountered  friends  occasionally 
that  way,  and  came  home  feeling  the  better  for  it. 
After  all,  he  had  been  leading  a  dull  life,  and  lack  of 
social  amusement,  he  told  himself,  had  something  to  do 
with  his  lack  of  interest  hi  writing.  His  temperament 
needed  it — writers  had  to  keep  in  touch  with  the 
world.  It  gave  them  ideas,  fostered  their  powers  of 
observation,  increased  their  knowledge  of  character, 
life.  Yes,  he  had  been  getting  stale. 

He  chanced  one  afternoon  on  passing  up  the  rue  de 
la  Paix,  to  meet  Mrs.  Percy  Colston,  who  was  issuing 
from  her  dressmaker's.  He  had  not  seen  her  since 
Mrs.  Eversley's  death  and,  indeed,  he  had  half  meant 
to  give  up  the  acquaintance.  It  was  among  the  re- 
nunciations that  his  present  existence  seemed  to  im- 
pose on  him,  somehow.  She  was  cordial  with  him,  in 
spite  of  his  long  neglect. 

"  I'm  done  to  death,"  she  said,  "  getting  hung  with 
garlands  like  the  Golden  Calf.  That's  one  of  the  names, 
by  the  way,  that  Percy  has  invented  for  me — although 
I  can't  say  he  does  so  much  worshipping.  Suppose  we 
go  into  the  Ritz  and  have  tea.  I'm  half  fainting  for  it." 

Her  voice  was  hard  and  strained.  He  wondered  if 
it  was  cutters  or  mundane  care  that  gave  it  the  tired 


294  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

intonation.  She  seemed  to  have  changed  since  he  last 
saw  her — there  was  less  than  ever  of  the  old  Buttercup. 
Perhaps  she  was  reacting  from  the  life  she  had  been 
leading.  She  had  steadily  climbed  the  Paris  social 
ladder,  as  he  knew  from  seeing  her  name  almost  daily 
in  the  papers. 

"  Let's  find  some  quieter  place,"  he  objected.  "  No 
one  can  talk  at  the  Ritz — it's  worse  than  a  cage  of 
cockatoos.  There's  a  tea-room  opposite  that  hasn't 
become  the  fashion  yet." 

"  Then  let's  go  there,"  she  agreed.  "I'm  getting 
sick  of  '  fashion.'  It's  all  scream  and  feathers,  as  you 
say.  I  haven't  much  imagination  any  more — if  I  ever 
had — or  I  shouldn't  have  proposed  the  other.  But  it's 
one  of  the  ruts  one  gets  into." 

They  went  to  the  place  Harding  proposed  and  found 
a  corner,  fairly  apart  from  the  general  clatter  of  tea 
cups. 

"  Why  haven't  you  been  to  see  me  ?  "  she  demanded, 
after  she  had  talked  a  while,  in  a  disillusioned  way, 
about  recent  amusements  and  less  personal  things.  It 
all  implied  that  her  life  was  empty  and  idle,  and 
Harding  experienced  a  touch  of  conscience.  Her 
foolish  marriage  was  responsible  for  it  in  a  way,  no 
doubt,  and  he  was  responsible  for  the  marriage.  He 
would  have  liked  to  help  her  if  he  could,  but  he  saw 
no  way;  without  medicine  to  cure  his  own  malady  of 
soul,  he  was  scarcely  in  a  position  to  save  this  girl  who 
had,  apparently,  ruined  her  nature  through  ambition  or 
whim.  Colston's  reference  to  Buttercup  that  spring 


THE  TEST  295 

had  given  him  a  glimpse  into  what  their  marriage  must 
be. 

"I  go  nowhere  now,"  he  answered.  "  We're  in 
mourning,  and  then  I'm  working.  Besides,  I  can't  say 
society  ever  did  me  much  good." 

"  It  doesn't  do  anyone  any  good,"  she  said  dispirit- 
edly. "  But  then,  what  does  ?  I  long  ago  gave  up  the 
idea  of  having  any  serious  interests.  Percy  once 
urged  me  to  pursue  what  he  called  the  '  career  of  crude- 
ness.'  He  proposed  to  me  a  salon  celebrity  by  chaunting 
Walt  Whitman,  arrayed  in  primitive  beads  and  feathers. 
It  has  struck  me — now  that  I  know  more  of  Paris — 
that  there  is  little  need  here  of  Whitman.  It  is  mostly 
'jThe  Song  of  Adam,'  I  should  say.  Yes,  I  heard  of 
Mrs.  Eversley's  death  and  of  your  taking  a  flat  in  town. 
She  wasn't  as  rich,  it  appears,  as  people  thought.  I 
suppose  that  was  why  Percy  threw  her  over.  He  has 
an  instinct  about  sinking  vessels.  But  I'm  sorry  for 
your  sake,  even  if  your  marriage  was  such  a  one  of 
sentiment.  I  don't  know  much  about  sentiment  " — 
and  she  laughed  with  some  bitterness — "  but  I  fancy 
there  must  be  times  when  it's  hard  to  live  on  it  exclu- 
sively." 

Her  tone  implied,  in  contradiction  to  her  words,  that 
she  conceived  him  disappointed  in  his  matrimonial 
calculations.  She  had  perhaps  had  reason  to  think  he 
had  approached  her  in  rather  a  fortune-hunting  spirit. 
It  annoyed  him,  and  he  remarked : 

"  It  was  rather  hard  on  my  wife,  of  course.  As  for 
myself,  I'm  not  certain  it  wasn't  the  best  thing — I'd 


296  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

probably  have  grown  slack  about  work  if  there  had  been 
much  money.  One  gets  lazy  when  there's  no  need  of 
earning  one's  bread.  And  writing  people  are  a  rather 
idle  set." 

"  Yes,  I  see  a  good  deal  of  them — they're  fond  of 
idling  in  the  house.  And  then  I've  been  reading 
Daudet's  Femmes  d' Artistes — that's  rather  illuminating. 
I  suppose  I  ought  to  call  myself  one,  granting  Percy's 
carved  cherry  stones  is  Art.  Daudet  describes  a  good 
many  kinds  of  artists,  and  I  amused  myself  trying  to 
see  which  of  the  situations  described  fitted  your  case. 
Oh,  no,  I  don't  read  much,  and  then  mostly  French 
novels.  I  once  aimed  at  improving  my  mind,  and 
Percy  seemed  a  road  to  culture.  But  I  gave  it  up. 
In  fact,  I've  given  up  pretty  much  everything  except 
trying  to  amuse  myself.  Yes,  as  a  femme  d'artiste 
I  can  hardly  be  called  a  success."  She  added,  after 
a  moment,  "  I'm  sure  Mrs.  Harding  must  make  an 
ideal  one." 

He  would  have  preferred  her  not  to  bring  Monica 
into  the  conversation,  it  seemed  bad  taste;  he  hesitated 
between  ignoring  the  remark  and  disposing  of  any 
assumption  she  might  have  formed  as  to  his  marriage 
not  being  satisfactory. 

"  Yes,  she  is  ideal,  to  use  your  word,"  he  replied. 
"  She's  entirely  too  good  for  me,  in  fact." 

"  Yes,  I  can't  fancy  you  exactly  '  ideal '  yourself," 
she  returned  with  a  slight  laugh.  "  I  shouldn't  like 
you  as  well  though.  One  gets  on  better  with  people 
who  have  their  faults.  I'm  human,  as  I  needn't  say, 


THE  TEST  297 

no  doubt,  and  I'm  more  at  ease  with  others  who're 
human  also.  But  it's  really  horrid  of  you  not  to  come 
to  see  me.  Are  you  too  much  in  love  with  your  ideal 
home-life  to  care  to  keep  up  old  friendships?  Don't 
come,  though,  on  my  'days,'  it  will  only  bore  you.  And 
then  I  really  want  to  talk  to  you.  A  talk  about  old 
times  will  do  me  good."  And  she  looked  at  him  rather 
wistfully,  as  though  his  neglect  of  her  had  cut.  Again 
he  felt  a  twinge.  She  had  risen,  and,  as  he  escorted 
her  to  her  motor,  he  said: 

"  I'd  certainly  be  glad  to  do  you  any  good,  even  if 
it  is  only  talking  over  old  times.  But  I'm  not  much 
of  a  hand  at  doing  anybody  good,  I  fear." 

She  sighed  restlessly.  "  I  doubt,  really,  if  anybody 
can  do  me  any  good.  It's  too  late  for  it,  I  imagine. 
I  don't  believe  in  anything  or  anybody  any  more. 
The  last  year  has  taken  it  out  of  me  somehow."  Then,  as 
she  gave  him  her  hand:  "  But  come  and  try,  any  way." 

And  he  left  her,  moved  by  the  look  in  her  eyes  as 
she  nodded  farewell. 

When  he  returned  home  he  found  that  Monica 
had  put  her  studio  in  working  order  during  his  absence. 
He  had  asked  her  to  go  out  with  him,  and  had  been  a 
little  wounded  that  she  had  not  come.  That  was  the 
explanation — she  had  resolved  to  take  up  her  enamelling 
again. 

It  gave  him  a  mixed  feeling  of  annoyance  and  pain, 
and  that  evening  he  shut  himself  in  his  study,  although 
no  inspiration  came.  It  was  his  protest  against  her 
opposing  his  wishes. 


298  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

Yes,  as  Buttercup  said,  she  was  ideal.  He  ought  to 
appreciate  it  instead  of  resenting  the  sacrifices  she 
was  making  for  him. 

Why  did  it  produce  the  odd  feeling  of  alienation  ? 

She  was  the  star  to  which  he  had  hitched  his  wagon 
stuck  in  the  mud  and  ruts  of  life.  But,  like  stars,  she 
was  set  high,  and  the  light  was  cold.  He  wished  she 
were  a  little  more  human,  more  loving,  and  less  calm. 

And  he  thought  of  the  look  in  Buttercup's  eyes  as 
they  parted. 

Yes,  nobody  could  say  that  Buttercup  wasn't 
human. 

He  struggled  with  his  writing  for  the  ensuing  week, 
and  did  not  keep  his  promise  of  calling  on  Buttercup. 
But  he  remained  out  of  sorts,  and  his  brain  felt  heavy, 
and,  even  with  extra  red  wine  at  dinner  and  a  return 
to  smoking,  he  seemed  unable  to  stimulate  himself 
to  the  extent  of  getting  any  decent  work  done.  What 
was  the  matter  with  him,  he  asked  himself.  Had  he 
lost  all  mental  life,  imagination,  glow,  in  the  early 
thirties?  His  old  discouraged  feelings  about  his 
futility,  his  lack  of  place  in  life,  came  more  heavily 
to  him.  Would  he  go  on  like  this,  and  was  Monica's 
hand  always  to  rest  at  the  helm,  and  he  remain  a 
wreck,  a  mere  drone,  filling  the  odious  position  of  a 
wife-supported  husband?  He  told  himself  he  could 
not  endure  it.  Yet  where  was  the  solution  ? 

He  yielded  enough  to  his  prejudice  in  having  Monica 
take  up  her  enamelling,  to  sit  sometimes  in  the  studio, 
talking  or  reading  to  her,  but  it  was  all  such  a  painful 


THE  TEST  299 

reminder  of  dependence  that  gradually — reproaching 
himself  for  it — he  avoided  the  studio  or  looked  in  only 
occasionally.  It  seemed  like  a  wanton  neglect,  yet 
he  did  not  feel  he  could  draw  breath  freely  watching 
her  working,  always  working.  The  sight  depressed 
him,  increased  his  melancholy  over  everything! 

He  did  not  often  stay  out  at  night,  but  one  evening 
he  met  an  old  New  York  acquaintance — a  fellow 
journalist — who  invited  him  to  dine;  and  afterwards 
they  had  gone  to  the  theatre  and  had  had  beer  at  a 
boulevard  cafe.  Harding  seldom  permitted  himself 
such  relaxation,  and  if  he  had  drunk  and  smoked  more 
than  was  prudent,  considering  his  state  of  health,  he 
had  enjoyed  the  evening  and  the  talk  over  New  York 
days,  and  he  came  home  in  better  spirits. 

He  expected  to  find  Monica  gone  to  bed,  and  he 
entered  quietly  so  as  not  to  disturb  her.  But  he  dis- 
covered that  she  was  not  in  the  apartment.  He  turned 
to  the  studio,  annoyed  that  she  should  work  at  such 
an  hour.  She  certainly  overdid  things,  particularly  in 
contrast  with  the  evening  he  had  spent. 

The  studio  was  not  connected  with  the  apartment 
and  was  at  the  farther  end  of  the  hall.  He  moved 
down  the  corridor,  his  tread  muffled  by  the  carpet. 
As  he  approached,  a  faint  odour  of  acids  greeted  his 
sense — it  suggested  the  atmosphere  of  an  apothecary. 
The  hall  was  in  darkness,  and  the  only  light  that 
came  to  him  was  from  the  studio,  for  the  door  was 
ajar. 

He  was  rather  curious  to  see  what  she  was  doing, 


300  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

and  it  arrested  his  step  at  the  threshold,  as  did  also 
the  picture  presented  to  his  view. 

The  large  studio  was  only  dimly  lighted.  Besides 
a  single  shaded  lamp  the  illumination  came  from  the 
open  mouth  of  the  muffler,  in  which  Monica  baked  her 
enamels.  It  required  a  high  degree  of  heat,  and  the 
charcoal  glowed  now,  sending  on  the  half  dusk  of  the 
studio  a  play  of  scarlet  light.  It  denned  in  red  all 
the  cracks  and  joinings  of  the  small  furnace  like  the 
sutures  of  a  skull.  The  light  emphasized  the  obscurity, 
wherein  much  of  its  simple  furniture  remained  un- 
defined. There  was  a  gleam  of  steel  tools  on  her 
working  bench,  the  pale  notes  of  a  few  plaster  casts 
that  hung  against  the  wall.  The  muffler  was  placed 
in  the  middle  of  the  room;  and  before  it  Monica 
was  standing,  examining  something  in  her  hands 
— no  doubt  an  enamel  which  had  recently  been 
baked. 

The  sanguinary  light  smote  her  hi  full  face,  so  that 
she  was  the  main  feature  of  the  picture.  She  was  in 
a  greyish  linen  blouse,  and  her  heavy  black  hair,  drawn 
back  from  her  brows,  fell  in  a  loose,  long  plait  over 
one  shoulder.  It  was  like  a  picture  by  Schalcken — 
reminded  Harding  of  certain  old  engravings  he  had 
seen.  He  paused,  impressed,  not  wanting  to  disturb 
the  effect  by  making  his  presence  known.  He  noted 
it  all,  but  what  struck  him  most  powerfully  was  the 
strange  expression  on  his  wife's  face.  Her  whole 
aspect  was  different  from  what  he  was  familiar  with: 
there  was  something  so  sinister  in  her  immobile  air: 


THE  TEST  301 

against  the  midnight-weighted  dusk  of  the  studio  it 
produced  almost  a  sense  of  shock. 

He  understood  after  a  moment  that  it  was  the  light. 
It  fell  on  her  features  in  such  a  way  as  to  erase  the 
everyday  lines,  remodel  them.  He  had  himself  some- 
times experimented  in  the  distortion  of  expression 
produced  by  shifting  a  candle  flame  in  front  of  a  face. 
It  was  odd  what  certain  shifts  brought  out,  as  though 
revealing  secrets  of  the  soul  there,  sketching  all  the 
possibilities  that  Nature  concealed.  Yet  he  could  not 
have  believed  that  the  illumination  falling,  as  it  did, 
on  his  wife's  face  could  so  transform  it,  make  it  look 
hard,  unpleasant,  almost  evil. 

He  was  about  to  enter  the  studio  when  Monica 
turned  from  the  furnace  and  went  to  one  side  of  the 
room.  She  took  from  a  stand  there  a  bottle  and  a 
small  pair  of  scales.  She  laid  two  slips  of  paper  on 
the  pans,  and,  unstopping  the  bottle,  began  carefully 
to  pour  out  some  white  powder.  It  was  borax,  to 
which  she  resorted  in  baking  the  enamels  when  the 
heat  refused  sufficiently  to  melt  the  colours.  The 
powder  clung  inside  the  bottle,  and  to  pour  it  she 
tapped  the  bottom  with  her  finger  tips  very  lightly, 
just  enough  to  have  the  proper  portion.  Then  she 
touched  the  scales  to  set  them  balancing,  to  judge 
whether  they  were  working  properly.  It  was  fine, 
delicate  work,  and  Harding  had  never  seen  her  at 
it — on  the  occasions  he  had  stopped  in  the  studio, 
Monica  was  generally  busy  with  her  brush  or  sketching 
some  design. 


302  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

What  impressed  him  now  was  her  dexterity,  the 
curious,  odd  play  of  her  long,  tapering  fingers.  They 
had  always  attracted  him,  but  it  was  more  than  that 
as  he  watched — it  was  fascination.  The  light  red- 
dened and  elongated  them,  made  their  motions  re- 
semble some  white,  cruel  spider.  They  held  him  by 
sheer  force  of  their  unpleasantness.  Then  the  con- 
nection came  back,  and  a  shock  of  feeling  caused  the 
moisture  to  spring  to  his  skin.  He  had  forgotten  the 
plaster  cast  of  the  Marquise  de  Brinvillier's  hand  in 
Madame  de  Kansa's  ante-room. 

Monica  had  the  hands  of  a  poisoner. 

And  with  the  recollection  came  the  thought  of  Mrs. 
Perdoe.  It  was  from  her,  no  doubt,  that  Monica  had 
got  her  hands.  She,  too,  had  been  a  poisoner.  He 
could  fancy  her  pouring  out,  in  the  same  adept  way, 
the  fatal  dose  of  powder,  white  and  just  enough,  like 
that,  for  her  victim,  while  the  silent  midnight  held  her. 

And,  with  a  strange  sense  of  sickness,  Harding 
turned  and  went  back  silently  to  the  apartment. 

When,  after  a  little,  Monica  entered,  he  pretended 
to  be  asleep. 


303 


CHAPTER  VIII 

BY  next  day  the  impression  lost  much  of  its  force. 
He  ridiculed  himself  for  allowing  nerves  to  get  such  a 
mastery  of  him.  It  was  more  than  absurd — it  insulted 
Monica  and  his  love  for  her.  She  had  been  labouring 
in  her  studio  for  his  sake,  and,  instead  of  being  touched 
by  it,  he  had  yielded  to  morbid  fancies  about  her.  It 
had  only  been  the  midnight  hour,  the  silence,  the 
sombre  shadows,  the  trick  of  light;  and,  seeing  her 
next  day,  calm,  dignified,  as  usual,  moving  about  in 
the  performance  of  household  duties,  he  felt  ashamed. 
Yet  her  hands  continued  to  have  a  strange  fascination 
for  him  as  he  watched  her  arrange  in  the  vases  the 
simple  market  flowers  she  brought  home,  or  do  a 
bundle  in  her  neat,  dexterous  way.  And  he  had  to 
control  a  feeling  of  dislike  at  having  her  touch  him. 

He  asked  what  she  was  doing  in  her  studio,  remain- 
ing up  so  late.  The  question  was  put  casually,  and 
he  did  not  tell  her  that  he  had  watched  her  work. 
He  professed  that  annoyance  at  finding  her  employed 
after  midnight  had  caused  him  to  go  to  bed  without 
waiting  for  her. 

She  brought  the  panel  for  him  to  see.  It  was  a 
beautiful  thing,  representing  a  robed  female  figure 
groping  with  outstretched  arms  through  a  cloud. 

"  What  do  you  call  it  ?  "  he  asked. 


304  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

"  Love  in  a  Mist,"  and  she  indicated  the  border  of 
pale,  interwoven  flowers  of  that  name. 

He  wondered  what  had  suggested  the  idea.  Was 
she  struggling  in  a  cloud  of  doubt  herself? 

A  few  days  later  he  was  searching  for  a  book  in 
the  boxes  left  untouched  since  taken  out  of  storage. 
He  picked  up  a  bundle  of  papers  which  proved  to 
be  the  original  version  of  The  Labyrinth  of  Life.  He 
had  by  this  time  half  forgotten  the  existence  of  this 
manuscript;  and  with  some  curiosity  he  glanced 
over  it. 

The  story  was  a  melancholy  one,  defiant  in  its 
exploitation  of  life's  sombre  side.  But  he  felt  it  had 
strength,  was  well  done;  and  if  he  had  doubted  a 
little  while  writing,  the  justice  of  his  philosophy,  he 
now  doubted  no  more.  Reading  it  in  his  study,  his 
self-confidence  as  a  writer  partly  returned.  How 
unfortunate  that  he  could  not  print  it!  It  would  so 
opportunely  meet  the  demand  of  his  publisher  for  a 
new  book,  save  him  from  again  defaulting  on  the 
contract,  permit  him  the  rest  which  was  becoming 
more  and  more  imperative.  He  thought  that  he  had 
attached  too  much  importance  to  the  slight  analogies 
that  might  be  drawn  between  this  case  and  that  of 
Mrs.  Perdoe.  After  all,  it  was  not  Monica's  grand- 
mother that  he  had  portrayed,  but  a  fiction  of  his 
own  which  a  mere  idle  allusion  had  suggested.  Monica 
herself  had  not  reproached  him  for  that;  her  objection 
had  been  based  entirely  on  the  idea  of  responsibility 
in  Art. 


THE  TEST  305 

Perhaps  he  could  persuade  her  to  treat  the  situation 
in  a  less  tragic  light. 

Several  days  passed  before  he  could  nerve  himself 
to  broach  the  subject.  Then  he  did  it  tentatively  one 
evening  at  table. 

It  was  a  pretty,  though  simple  dinner,  in  which  his 
special  predilections  had  been  thought  of.  Monica, 
concerned  over  his  depression,  had  evidently  meant 
to  flatter  his  likes  and  perhaps  thereby  win  him  to  a 
more  cheerful  mood.  She  talked  more  than  was  her 
habit,  and  of  light,  distracting  things.  This  was  the 
most  comfortable  room  of  the  apartment,  and  its 
crimson  paper  helped,  like  the  fire  on  the  hearth,  to 
shut  out  the  memory  of  the  damps  and  chill  of  a  Paris 
winter.  They  were  accustomed  to  linger  over  the 
evening  meal,  for  both  liked  to  be  there.  Besides, 
it  was  the  hour  that  they  could  count  on  being  to- 
gether— the  rest  of  the  day  often  had  its  separating 
tasks. 

It  was  not  until  after  dessert  that  Harding,  who 
had  remained  preoccupied,  could  bring  himself  to 
mention  the  manuscript.  He  swallowed  his  coffee 
rather  hastily — he  had  perhaps  waited  for  its  stimu- 
lating effect. 

"  I  had  to  look  through  one  of  those  boxes  from  my 
room  on  the  quays,"  he  remarked,  trying  to  speak 
casually.  "  And  I  came  across  that  old  story  of 
mine.  It  has  been  such  a  long  time  since  I  wrote  it 
that  I  was  able  to  read  it  detachedly.  And  it  struck 
me  as  by  far  the  best  thing  I've  attempted." 

x 


306  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

"What  old  story?"  she  returned  with  a  puzzled 
look,  trying  to  recall  the  manuscripts  he  had  mentioned 
to  her.  She  was  thinking  it  must  be  one  of  the  various 
inchoate  sketches  he  had  occupied  himself  with  during 
their  travels.  He  had  discussed  so  many  literary  ideas 
with  her. 

"  Why,  The  Labyrinth  of  Life,"  he  said,  with  more 
coolness  than  he  felt.  "It  is  the  only  other  long 
story  I've  done,  you  know.  I  was  wondering  if  you 
wouldn't  like  to  look  over  it  again.  You  might  change 
your  opinion.  It  would  settle  all  that  bother  with 
Bentley  for  one  thing." 

"  But — you  destroyed  it."  Monica  struggled  to 
understand  a  statement  which  contradicted  facts  as 
she  knew  them.  She  was  not  a  woman  who  hastily 
drew  unwelcome  conclusions.  He  had  said  he  had 
destroyed  the  story;  so,  of  course,  he  had. 

"  Yes,  I  destroyed  the  final,  typed  copy.  I  burned 
it  that  Christmas  night  when  I  got  home.  But  there 
was  the  original  which  I  had  already  tossed  aside.  I 
forgot  it  for  the  moment,  and  afterwards,  when  I  came 
upon  it,  that  ordeal  of  fire  seemed  so  unnecessarily 
dramatic  " — he  recalled  the  phrase  Nicolls  had  applied 
to  him. 

She  did  not  say  anything  for  a  breath.  Her  little 
pauses  before  replying,  where  their  talk  was  on  any 
subject  of  importance,  gave  value  to  her  speech. 
They  stamped  her  words  as  distinct  from  the  phrases 
of  impulse;  they  expressed,  like  so  many  other  things 


THE  TEST  307 

about  her,  her  poised  intelligence:  they  had  always 
made  her  seem  older  than  she  was. 

"  You  mean  that  you  told  me  a  falsehood  ?  "  She 
said  it  very  clearly. 

"  That's  putting  it  pretty  strong,  isn't  it  ?  "  he 
replied,  with  a  flush  of  offence. 

"  It  is  putting  it  plainly.  I'm  afraid  I'm  too  literal 
not  to  understand  '  destroyed  '  as  destroyed.  It  has 
been  the  word  always  used  by  us  in  referring  to  the 
book.  Now  you  say  that  in  burning  one  copy  you 
kept  another.  I  did  not  hold  you  capable  of  such 
deception !  " 

Her  voice  was  hard  as  in  the  days  of  their  first 
acquaintance — before  he  had  conquered  her  instinctive 
antagonism.  It  had  grown  so  much  gentler  and 
sweeter  since  their  marriage  that  the  tone,  as  well  as 
her  words,  fell  with  the  cold  effect  of  a  sudden  breach 
between  them.  All  a  lifetime  of  scrupulous  self- 
training  in  little  things  expressed  itself  in  her  reply. 
For  her,  to  tell  one  lie  was  the  same  thing  as  telling 
a  thousand. 

"It  is  not  as  though  I  had  made  you  destroy  the 
book,"  she  continued.  "  I  stopped  you  when  you 
were  going  to  cast  it  in  the  fire  that  Christmas  night 
at  our  house.  I  did  not  want  you  merely  to  please 
me.  It  was  something  that  lay  with  your  own  con- 
science. Yet  it  meant  a  great  deal  to  me  when  you 
said  that  you  had  done  it  voluntarily  because  you 
were  convinced  that  it  was  the  only  right  thing  to  do." 

X2 


308  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

"  Don't  take  it  like  that,  Monica,"  he  protested, 
trying  to  check  his  annoyance.  "  You  are  so  exact. 
Do  make  some  allowance  for  people  who  don't  live  by 
the  letter.  It  is  one  of  the  discouraging  things  about 
you,  that  you  have  no  imagination,  no  latitude  in 
dealing  with  others.  You  are  making  a  grand  issue 
out  of  nothing.  When  I  told  you  I  had  destroyed  the 
manuscript,  I  thought  I  had.  I  suppose,  when  later 
I  remembered  the  other  copy,  I  ought  to  have  corrected 
your  impression."  He  floundered  under  the  steady 
look  with  which  she  heard  him  out. 

"  What  I  started  to  ask,"  he  went  on  more  resolutely, 
"  was  whether  you  won't  re-read  the  story,  as  long  as 
it  does  exist.  You  might  be  induced  to  yield  your 
point  about  its  pernicious  effect.  This  book  would 
relieve  the  whole  present  situation.  I  am  not  well,  I 
doubt  if  I  can  get  another  novel  done  now,  and  Bentley 
expects  the  contract  to  be  filled  this  time.  He  has 
already  begun  announcing  a  new  work  by  me.  I  need 
the  money — and  I  need  the  relief  and  rest  that  it 
would  give  me.  We  all  need  it,  in  fact.  We  might 
be  able  to  go  to  the  Riviera  for  a  while.  .  .  .  The  doctor 
has  urged  it.  Really,  since  you  say  my  peace  of  mind 
matters  so  much  to  you,  you  might  at  least  give  me 
a  chance  by  reading  the  story  again." 

"It  is  not  necessary  for  me  to  re-read  it,"  she 
answered,  growing  steadily  colder.  "  I  remember 
perfectly — I  can't  imagine  myself  forgetting.  And 
what  I  thought  before,  I  think  still  and  shall  always 
think.  But  you  are  a  free  agent.  And  if  you  think 


THE  TEST  309 

that  a  need  of  money  warrants  you  in  going  against 
your  feeling  of  right — if  you  are  satisfied  to  profit  by 
injuring  others,  by  spreading  ideas  to  rob  people  of 
courage,  by  shouting  out  falsehood  as  though  it  were 
truth — what  is  there  to  say — except  that  you  are  not 
what  I  thought." 

He  turned  on  her  with  the  resentment  roused  by 
her  display  of  rancour  which  was  almost  temper. 

"  One  might  think  the  story  was  a  '  Werther '  to 
make  people  blow  out  their  brains.  We  are  not 
living  in  a  romantic  age;  people  don't  take  books  that 
way  any  more." 

"  We  are  living  in  a  real  age,  of  real  books,"  she 
replied  unyielding.  "  And  books  do  persuade.  Re- 
member that  to  write  falsely  is  worse  than  to  speak 
falsely,  because  your  public  is  immeasurably  larger. 
Even  if  you  believed  the  book,  there  might  be  some 
frail  excuse  for  publishing  it,  but  The  Labyrinth  of 
Life  stands  for  what  you  don't  believe." 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  of  that.  What  is  life  but  the 
miserable,  blind,  ironic  thing  I  represent  it  to  be 
in  the  book  ?  What  cause  have  I  to  see  it  the  wonder- 
ful, smug,  smiling  thing  you  allege  it  to  be?  Where 
is  there  any  real  demonstration  of  your  optimistic 
theories?  "  he  demanded  passionately.  "  God  knows, 
I  began  life  hopefully  enough,  did  my  duty  as  I  recog- 
nized it,  slaved  my  youth  out  in  an  effort  to  get  bread; 
struggled,  scrambled  on,  clung  to  such  spars  as  drifted 
my  way — had  a  moment's  gleam  of  success,  only  to 
drop  back  into  the  slough  again;  and  find  myself  at 


310  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

thirty  a  wreck,  incapable  of  work,  a  mere  shell  of 
futility,  a  dependent  on  you  for  support — and  you 
tell  me  not  to  publish  The  Labyrinth  of  Life  because  it 
may  discourage  a  stray  reader!  Let  it  discourage  a 
reader,  let  it  discourage  the  whole  world,  if  the  dis- 
couragement is  the  truth.  Why  shouldn't  the  world 
have  the  truth?  You  say  a  writer  ought  to  write 
honestly.  I  am  honest  in  the  book  you  wanted  me  to 
throw  in  the  fire,  the  only  book  that  has  meant  any- 
thing, my  only  book  that  has  any  Art  in  it.  Half  the 
trouble  with  me  now  is  that  I  have  not  been  honest, 
and  that  is  why  the  novel  I  am  doing,  to  please  you, 
to  get  money  in  a  far  baser  way,  has  never  got  done 
— why  it  lies  on  my  desk  yonder  a  mass  of  incoherent, 
meaningless  twaddle — would-be  pabulum  for  school- 
girls, for  people  who  dress  up  life  to  please  their  senti- 
mental fancies.  No  wonder  I  loathe  it,  that  I  go  to 
my  study  with  disgust  and  humiliation  over  the  whole 
farce  of  this  imitated  optimism  of  yours.  But  you 
aren't  optimistic — you  are  no  more  honest  with  me 
than  I  have  been  with  you.  You  know  you  believe 
the  book,  that  you  believe  in  what  it  says  of  heredity, 
that  your  opposition  all  along  has  been  your  sensitive- 
ness, though  you  wouldn't  be  frank  enough  to  say  so. 
Instead,  you  come  out  with  your  sophistries,  your  talk 
of  '  artistic  responsibility.' ' 

He  had  begun  by  merely  contending  on  superficial 
grounds  for  the  book,  and  he  had  ended,  through  pas- 
sion gradually  seizing  him,  in  a  complete  avowal  of 
the  truth.  With  a  rash  hand  he  had  swept  down  the 


THE  TEST  311 

fabric  of  her  faith  in  him,  the  effort  she  had  made  to 
hold  him  up  to  the  ideals  on  which  their  marriage  had 
been  reared.  He  felt  the  tragedy  of  it,  yet  felt,  too, 
a  strange  new  sense  of  freedom.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  his  self-reliance  was  restored. 

He  pushed  back  his  chair,  and,  rising,  stood  regard- 
ing her  uncertainly.  But  she  remained  in  cold  im- 
mobility. An  ember  fell  on  the  hearth  with  a  little 
shock  to  the  silence.  The  faint  ticking  of  the  clock 
was  like  the  heart-beat  of  fate  that  had  overtaken  their 
life  at  last. 

"  Monica,  forgive  me  if  I  have  gone  too  far,"  he 
faltered,  "  but  you  have  not  realised  all  my  book 
meant  to  me.  An  author's  principles  become  vested 
in  his  books,  as  a  woman's  in  her  surroundings." 

His  last  words  seemed  lost  upon  her;  her  eyes  had  a 
strange,  almost  sinister,  gleam  under  her  drawn 
brows.  He  felt  a  species  of  fear,  which  her  silence  only 
increased. 

"  You  told  me  to  search  my  conscience,"  he  began 
again  uneasily.  "  I  have  only  suggested  that  you 
search  your  own.  The  situation  is  not  one  for  quib- 
bling. We  are  dealing  with  our  problem  of  living. 
I  cannot  sacrifice  my  means  of  self-support  for  the 
sheer  sake  of  a  magnificently-attenuated  ideal.  If  it 
is  as  my  wife  that  the  publication  of  this  book  seems 
wrong  to  you,  that  is  one  thing;  but  if  other  sentiments 
come  into  play,  then  it  is  different." 

He  stopped  and  waited,  compelling  her  to  speak. 

"  If  a  novelist  is  also  a  man,  a  wife  is  also  a  woman," 


312  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

she  said  at  last.  "  You  begin  by  attempting  to  humi- 
liate me  with  your  insinuations,  and  now  you  ask  me 
to  accept  bread  which  would  be  as  bitter  in  my  mouth 
as  it  ought  to  be  in  yours.  If  our  ease  is  to  depend  on 
compromise,  then  let  us  accept  poverty.  But  all 
this  is  wide  of  the  mark — perhaps  needlessly  dramatic, 
as  you  would  say,  but  certainly  needlessly  insulting 
to  me.  I  have  received  an  order  from  the  Arundel 
Society  for  some  enamelling.  I  am  to  be  well  paid. 
You  may  go  to  the  Riviera  if  you  wish.  And  we  can 
still  each  cling  to  what  we  choose  to  take  as  our  ideals." 

The  slow  red  mounted  to  his  cheek.  "  And  sup- 
pose I  was  so  mean-spirited  as  to  comply — how  about 
my  contract  with  Bentley  ?  " 

"  Your  publisher  had  the  opportunity  to  reimburse 
himself,"  she  answered.  "  He  returned  the  money 
because  he  had  faith  in  you,  but  I  promise  you  he 
shall  not  suffer  if  you  never  write  another  story." 

He  could  tolerate  no  more.  "  I  think  you  are  right 
in  saying  our  talk  is  wide  of  the  mark,"  he  returned 
bitingly.  "  Let  this  question  of  the  manuscript  rest 
for  the  present — but  I  don't  promise  never  to  pub- 
lish it." 

He  turned  and  entered  his  study.  He  spent  the 
remainder  of  the  evening  at  his  desk,  with  scattered 
sheets  of  the  new  story  before  him.  All  he  wanted  to 
write  about  was  a  description  of  a  woman's  brooding 
look  that  somehow  was  burned  into  his  brain.  But 
there  was  no  room  for  this  in  his  fiction. 


313 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  child,  who  had  always  been  sickly,  developed 
serious  symptoms.  Monica,  fearing  that  her  doctor 
did  not  understand  the  case,  sent  for  a  noted  specialist 
in  consultation;  this  new  authority  claimed  to  dis- 
cover trouble  in  the  spine,  by  which  he  explained  not 
only  the  present  feverish  state,  but  also  the  weakness 
of  one  foot  which  had  existed  since  the  child's  birth. 
While  not  actually  saying  that  little  Julian's  life  was 
in  danger,  his  attitude  seemed  to  imply  as  much;  he 
objected  to  Monica's  system  of  keeping  the  cradle  near 
her  as  she  worked  in  the  studio,  for  he  feared  the 
effects  of  both  the  high  temperature  and  the  odour 
of  the  acids;  and  he  insisted  that  a  nurse  should  be 
engaged.  Monica  found  a  fairly  good  nurse;  but  at 
his  next  visit,  the  usual  doctor,  whether  from  the 
necessities  of  the  case  or  because  he  did  not  wish  to 
appear  unfashionable  as  compared  with  the  specialist, 
insisted  that  a  trained  nurse  could  alone  watch  the 
symptoms  and  dispense  the  medicines.  To  which 
Monica  replied  that  any  additional  care  could  be  given 
by  her;  but  within  thirty-six  hours  the  child's  state 
became  really  so  alarming  that  she  was  forced  to 
yield  the  point. 

During  all  these  anxious  days  Harding  saw  that 
Monica  was  divided  between  maternal  duties  and  the 


314  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

determination  to  provide  necessary  funds.  She  passed 
from  the  sick  room  to  her  studio,  sacrificing  her  own 
health  and  strength.  It  was  heroic,  but  profoundly 
exasperating;  and  Harding  felt  there  was  defiance  in 
it,  too,  as  though  Monica  was  dominated  by  an  almost 
fanatical  obstinacy.  She  evidently  intended  to  give 
him  no  excuse  for  sending  off  the  manuscript  on  the 
plea  of  pecuniary  pressure.  She  would  save  him  from 
himself,  from  what  in  her  opinion  was  a  moral  com- 
promise. He  had  known,  in  youth,  a  similar  enthu- 
siast, a  temperance  relative,  who,  in  dying,  waved 
aside  the  spoonful  of  brandy  on  which  he  had  been 
told  his  life  depended. 

Setting  his  teeth  determinedly,  and  casting  aside 
the  over-fastidiousness  which  had  always  hampered 
his  work,  he  toiled  in  his  room  while  she  toiled  in  her 
studio,  and  found  savage  satisfaction  in  seeing  that 
he  made  real  progress  with  his  story,  which  flowed 
smoothly  from  the  simple  fact  that  he  allowed  it  to 
flow.  He  no  longer  feared  for  it  or  doubted  in  him- 
self: his  sole  concern  was  over  the  lapse  of  time  required 
for  the  actual  writing  of  so  many  thousand  words  a 
day.  Meanwhile  bills  rained  in  so  as  to  remind  him 
of  the  dreary  months  at  Mrs.  Eversley's;  living  in 
Paris  was  no  longer  the  cheap  thing  it  had  been  con- 
sidered, and  being  ill  in  Paris  was  a  luxury  few  could 
afford.  Then,  one  day,  the  child  grew  decidedly 
worse;  a  second  specialist  was  called  in,  who  required 
a  night  nurse  as  well  as  a  day  nurse  and  a  complete 
new  set  of  drugs,  of  dishes,  of  fittings,  at  all  of  which 


THE  TEST  315 

Harding  gazed  in  dismay.  Going  to  his  study,  he 
looked  over  his  manuscript.  It  would  be  another 
month  before  he  would  have  it  written  to  the  end  in 
its  first  rough  form;  even  then  developments  might 
impose  further  important  modifications.  He  felt  that 
after  all  that  had  passed  he  could  not  afford  to  risk 
a  rebuff  from  Bentley  by  submitting  to  them  a  rough 
unsatisfactory  story;  four  weeks,  perhaps  six,  were 
all  that  he  needed — but  that  time  he  must  have;  and 
while  it  elapsed — poor  Monica ! 

There  was  but  one  thing  to  do.  He  sent  The 
Labyrinth  of  Life  as  a  substitute;  and,  confident  as 
he  was  of  the  value  of  the  story,  he  asked  for  a  further 
advance  on  his  royalties. 

That  very  night  the  child  died. 

The  weeks  that  followed,  in  which  their  life  appeared 
to  resume  much  of  its  old  daily  aspects,  were  almost 
unendurable  to  Harding.  He  lived  in  suspense,  not 
daring  to  speak  of  what  lay  most  on  his  heart,  though 
oppressed  by  the  desire  to  bring  to  a  point  the  issue 
that  underlay  the  surface  of  their  intercourse.  Yet 
no  opportunity  was  provided,  for  Monica  did  not  even 
indirectly  allude  to  their  momentous  argument.  She 
was  as  calmly  kind  as  formerly,  and  she  took  seemingly 
more  pains  than  ever  in  attempting  to  attend  to  his 
comforts.  Her  love  for  him  might  be  dead,  but  sense 
of  wifely  duty  evidently  had  not  lessened  its  claim. 
No  matter  what  her  feelings  about  him  were,  she 
would  always  do  her  duty,  was  his  embittered  reflec- 
tion. She  was  Duty  itself.  At  times  he  was  almost 


316  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

persuaded  from  her  air  that  the  loss  of  her  child  had 
put  their  conversation  out  of  her  mind.  But  he  knew 
she  was  not  the  kind  of  woman  who  forgot. 

Nicolls  still  came  often  to  the  house,  but  Harding 
almost  hated  him  now.  He  felt  that  under  the  Eng- 
lishman's friendliness,  even  in  their  affliction,  there  was 
a  latent  sense  of  criticism  of  him  and  pity  for  Monica. 
He  had  always  been  fond  of  little  Julian,  and  Harding 
said  to  himself  jealously,  it  sprang  from  old  senti- 
ments about  Monica.  Furthermore,  the  Englishman 
brought  with  him  an  air  of  prosperity  and  competence, 
of  satisfaction  with  himself  and  the  world,  that  added 
to  Harding's  feelings  of  dull,  smouldering  resentment. 
It  was  all  a  declaration  of  the  mistake  Monica  had 
made  not  to  marry  him — a  man  in  accord  with  her 
own  character  and  views,  who  could  care  for  her,  give 
her  ease.  Now  that  she  was  disappointed  in  her 
husband,  had  perhaps  given  him  up  as  utterly  with- 
out redemption,  such  thoughts  must  sometimes  cross 
her  heart.  Yet,  far  from  interfering  with  their  friend- 
ship, Harding  rather  pointedly  left  the  two  together 
to  go  to  his  study,  where  he  sat  idly  brooding,  picturing 
them  there  by  the  salon  fire — Monica,  in  her  black 
dress,  grave,  interested  in  the  things  of  life  they  dis- 
cussed together;  Nicolls  admiring,  expressing  by  his 
attitude  his  sympathy  for  her.  Yes,  Nature  had 
designed  them  for  each  other,  he  thought  bitterly, 
and  it  was  he — who  had  deluded  Monica  into  marriage 
on  the  ground  that  therein  lay  a  mission — stood 
between  them ! 


THE  TEST  317 

One  night  he  found  on  his  study  table  a  package 
from  Bentley  &  Company.  It  was  his  manuscript, 
and  he  broke  open  the  envelope  of  the  letter  which 
accompanied  it. 

He  crushed  the  sheet  furiously  in  his  hand  after  he 
had  read.  They  had  returned  The  Labyrinth  of  Life. 
It  was  not  in  the  line  they  had  expected,  it  would  be 
disastrous  to  the  reputation  he  had  made  with  The 
Horns  of  the  Altar.  They  took  even  a  magnificent 
moral  tone:  "  We  would  not  publish  it,"  Mr.  Hart 
wrote,  "  even  if  we  counted  on  its  selling  by  the 
thousands." 

So  Monica  had  been  right  ? 

He  had  not  spoken  to  her  of  sending  off  the  manu- 
script, he  did  not  speak  now  of  its  return.  But  he 
felt  that  she  knew — and  triumphed.  It  would  have 
taken  a  less  human  man  than  Harding  not  to  re- 
sent all  that  her  silence  implied.  Even  though  she 
were  right,  her  attitude  was  intolerable.  After  an 
entire  day  of  angry  rebellion,  he  could  no  longer 
support  it. 

They  sat  by  the  fire  that  night,  talking  of  indifferent 
things  while  Monica  embroidered.  Her  slim  white 
hands  thus  employed  gave  him  in  his  nervous  condi- 
tion something  of  the  old  repugnance;  and  he  had 
taken  up  his  newspaper,  professing  to  read  it.  After 
a  little  he  glanced  at  her  and  saw  that  she  was  idly 
staring  in  the  flames. 

"  Monica,  what  is  the  use  of  our  going  on  like  this," 
he  burst  out.  "  Why  don't  you  be  frank  and  tell  me 


3i8  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

what  you  think  of  me?  Don't  you  suppose  I  know 
what  your  thoughts  are?  " 

"  Then  what  need  is  there  of  speaking  ?  "  she  said 
quietly. 

"  But  there  is  a  reason.  I  can't  bear  living  day 
after  day  with  this  silence  between  us.  It's  quite 
time  we  talked  out  what  is  in  both  our  minds." 

"What  need  is  there  of  frankness  now?"  And 
her  eyes  deepened  as  she  still  regarded  the  fire.  "  I 
was  frank  when  you  asked  me  to  marry  you,  and  you 
were  not.  You  choose  a  moment  when  it  can  do  no 
good.  It  cannot  alter  the  one  great  fact  in  our  life." 

"And  that?" 

"  The  mistake  you  made  in  asking  me  to  marry 
you.  I  cannot  help  as  you  asked  me  to.  You  do  not 
even  wish  me  to.  Did  you  ever  wish  it?  " 

"  No,  I  never  did  in  the  way  you  mean.  I  loved 
you,  and  I  wanted  your  love.  It's  why  most  men  ask 
a  woman  to  marry  them.  After  all,  does  anything 
else  matter?  " 

"  A  great  deal  matters  to  me." 

"  Yes.  You  don't  value  love,  you  think  only  of 
helping  others,  as  though  that  was  all  marriage  meant." 

"  And  isn't  love  help  ?  " 

"  Perhaps,  but  help  isn't  always  love.  I  have  tried 
to  please  you,"  he  went  on  with  increased  feeling, 
"  tried  to  adapt  myself  to  your  ideas,  done  it  to  the 
suppression  of  my  own.  And  that  has  been  the 
trouble,  I  fancy.  I  have  been  living  a  life  of  false 
adaptations.  If  I  sent  the  manuscript  to  Bentley, 


THE  TEST  319 

I  did  it  because  I  had  to — it  was  the  only  thing  left 
to  do." 

She  remained  silent,  and  he  felt  that  there  she  did 
not,  never  would  yield. 

"It  is  true,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  "  that  you 
meant  more  to  me  than  my  own  convictions  when  I 
married  you.  If  I  deceived  you  in  promising  to 
mould  myself  to  your  views  of  life,  I  deceived  myself 
as  well.  I  thought  I  could.  I  find  I  can't.  Why 
can't  you  accept  me  as  I  am,  Monica  ?  Suppose  I  do 
find  life  a  melancholy,  hopeless  riddle?  Why  should 
you  cease  to  care  for  me  because  I  do  ?  And  perhaps 
you  would  find  it  so,  if  you  really  allowed  yourself  to 
see  things  as  they  are.  Then  we  could  face  its  failure 
together,  find  the  solace  love  gives,  and  the  rest — 
well,  the  rest  could  go.  But  you  are  a  woman  born 
with  the  fixed  idea  that  you  have  a  mission  to  reform 
the  world.  You  think  you  have  a  mission  to  reform 
me,  to  force  me  to  see  things  as  you  see  them.  Yet 
I  wonder  if,  after  all,  I  don't  face  the  truth  more 
squarely  than  you  do  ...  than  any  woman  ever  does." 
He  drew  a  breath  of  emotion.  "  That's  why  we've 
never  found  any  real  happiness  together.  I  suppose 
it  was  wrong  to  get  you  to  marry  me,  knowing  what 
I  am,  what  you  are." 

He  spoke  with  the  nervousness  of  a  man  who  has 
too  long  held  his  feelings  in  check.  It  was  a  relief  to 
give  vent  to  it  all,  although  he  was  conscious  of  the 
brutality  with  which  he  presented  it. 

"  It  was  my  fault — for  you  are  much  younger  than 


320  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

I — yes,  I  should  have  known  how  it  would  all  end," 
he  added,  staring  moodily  into  the  fire. 

"  And  I,  too,"  she  replied  slowly,  "  I  was  not  too 
young.  I  was  never  too  young  ...  I  left  youthfulness 
to  my  mother."  But  there  was  no  irony  in  her  voice. 

Her  air  touched  him,  and  he  said  in  a  changed  tone : 

"  Oh,  Monica,  if  only  you  sometimes  hesitated  over 
questions  of  ethics — or,  rather,  if  you  thought  less 
about  life,  took  it  differently,  in  a  more  simple  way! 
I  know  I  have  disappointed  you.  But  could  it  have 
been  otherwise?  This  trying  to  make  people  what 
they  aren't,  can  never  be.  There's  the  tragedy  of  it 
all.  One  can't  make  people  over — they  have  to  be 
what  they  are." 

"  Yes,  perhaps  I  was  too  credulous,"  she  answered, 
with  her  first  bitter  touch. 

He  got  up  and  paced  the  room  in  a  fit  of  futile 
rebellion  against  himself,  against  her,  against  the  whole 
coil  of  things. 

"  And  nothing  can  ever  make  us  alike,"  he  resumed 
after  a  moment.  "  We  are  opposed  as  much  as  certain 
forces  in  nature.  They  say  marriage  adjusts.  ...  I 
remember  it  was  what  Miss  Vanderhurst  so  confidently 
held.  But  what  ever  really  adjusts  two  people  as 
contrary  as  you  and  I?  I  make  you  unhappy — I 
shall  always  make  you  unhappy.  There  is  no  solution 
that  I  can  see." 

"  Say  it  for  yourself  if  you  wish,"  she  answered; 
"  not  for  me,  for  I  still  can  hope." 

"  Your  hope  !"  he  replied,  "  it  is  part  of  your  whole 


THE  TEST  321 

attitude.  You  won't  give  it  up — your  '  mission  '  ; 
you'll  still  aim  to  make  me  something  else  than 
I  am.  We  can  be  happy  in  just  being  our  human 
selves." 

"  I  can  never  be  happy  drifting,"  she  said  intensely; 
"  life  would  not  be  worth  the  living  so.  It  was  not 
meant  that  it  should  be — without  effort,  without 
courage,  without  even  self-respect."  She  lifted  her 
head  and  her  grey  eyes  fixed  him. 

"  But  unless  you  yield  something,  how  are  we  to  find 
the  least  bit  of  peace  ?  It  isn't  that  I'm  utterly  without 
redemption,  it  is  only  your  thinking  so.  If  I  hold  one 
thing  one  day,  another  the  next,  if  my  feelings  and 
points  of  view  change,  it's  because  I  am  the  artist  type. 
Can't  you  make  allowance  for  that  in  me  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  thinking  of  the  artist,  I  am  thinking  of  the 
man,"  she  responded. 

"The  'man,'"  he  laughed  shortly.  "As  though 
'  the  man,'  as  you  call  it,  (wasn't  always  crucified  in  the 
artist.  You  mean  I'm  weak,  and  what  artist  isn't 
weak,  when  it  comes  to  that?  Don't  you  see  that 
nature  sacrifices  one  thing  in  giving  the  world  another  ? 
It  is  the  artist's  weakness  that  is  his  strength.  An 
artist  isn't  normal,  he  never  was  normal.  If  you  con- 
ventionalize him,  if  he  sees,  acts,  feels  like  other  people, 
he  is  stripped  of  his  usefulness,  of  the  only  side  that 
makes  his  power." 

"  If  I  thought  that,  if  I  thought  '  art '  meant  the 
shirking  of  ordinary  responsibilities  of  living,  was 
based  on  moral  flabbiness,  I  should  lose  all  respect  for 

Y 


322  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

it.  And  it  isn't  so — the  greatest  artists  have  always 
been  men  one  could  respect." 

He  smiled  sarcastically.  "  I'm  afraid  you  haven't 
read  the  biographies  of  genius,  then.  But  I  doubt  if 
even  that  would  shake  your  views.  Nothing  would 
make  you  give  up  what  means  more  to  you  than  love 
or  happiness." 

"  I  have  wanted  to  help  your  life,  not  hinder  it," 
she  returned ;  and  her  eyes  still  gazed  darkly  in  the  flame. 
"  But  you  had  no  right  to  hinder  mine.  You  owed  me 
fairness  in  the  beginning.  How  dared  you  ask  me  to 
marry  you  " — and  her  pale  face  gathered  a  sudden 
proud  emotion — "  feeling  as  you  do  ?  Not  about 
'  art,'  but  about  all  that  was  most  sacred,  most  vital  to 
me.  What  do  you  suppose  every  day,  every  moment, 
has  been  to  me  since  you  told  me  that  you  believed  in 
your  book  and  its  theories — have  always  believed  therr . 
My  being  your  wife  under  the  circumstances  is  a  humili- 
ation. It  can  only  mean  that  in  your  eyes  I  committed 
wrong  to  marry  you.  No  artist  plea  can  excuse  you 
there.  Even  an  artist  " — and  her  lip  showed  her  sense 
of  outrage — "  can  be  merciful.  And  what  mercy  did 
you  show  me  ?  But  why  should  I  speak  of  your  weak- 
ness. ...  I  was  weaker  than  you." 

"  Why  do  you  take  it  like  that,  Monica?  "  he  said, 
pleadingly.  "  I  never  meant  to  wrong  you.  I  don't 
see  how  I  wrong  you  now.  It  is  only  your  pride  and 
sensitiveness.  You  regard  the  story  as  though  it 
passed  judgement  on  you.  And  you  know  I  never 
intended  that.  It  is  unjust,  it's  foolish,  to  hold  the 


THE  TEST  323 

book  against  me.  What  difference  can  it  make,  if  we 
love  each  other?  " 

"  What  difference  ?  You  make  me  speak  of  the 
manuscript  then.  Well,  let  us  speak  of  it.  And  what 
did  the  sending  of  it  to  your  publisher  mean  ?  It 
meant  that  you  cast  contempt  on  your  own  child.  I 
pass  over  what  the  humiliation  was  to  me — that  may 
go.  Perhaps  it  was  best  that  Julian  died.  .  .  .  He 
might  have  grown  up  to  read  The  Labyrinth  of  Life." 

At  that  moment,  Nicolls  entered  the  salon,  and 
Harding,  murmuring  some  curt  apology,  left  the 
apartment. 


324 


CHAPTER  X 

"  I  WANT  to  leave  Chicot  with  you.  I'm  going  to 
London  to  get  some  clothes;  I  wouldn't  separate  my- 
self from  the  dear  little  soul  for  anything  less  important 
than  clothes.  And  where  I've  learned  I  can't  trust 
Buttercup  with  herself,  imagine  my  trusting  her  with 
Chicot!  I  wish  I  hadn't  quarrelled  with  that  M.P. 
who  was  such  a  dear  friend  of  mine — he  could  have  had 
that  damned  English  dog  law  repealed,  and  now  I  know 
he's  helping  to  keep  it,  just  to  spite  me !  " 

The  poet  delivered  himself  of  this  speech  without  a 
pause,  as  he  sat  down  uninvited  at  the  table  Harding 
was  occupying  on  the  terrace  of  Weber's.  The  invita- 
tion to  care  for  his  dog,  like  the  invitation  to  buy  a 
drink  for  himself,  had  evidently  come  to  Colston  on 
seeing  his  former  friend,  whom  he  greeted  with  a  cor- 
diality which  was  scarcely  returned.  Still,  Harding 
had  no  reason  for  insulting  Buttercup's  husband; 
indeed,  he  was  one  of  the  few  people  who  had  never 
actually  quarrelled  with  Percy.  That  was  what  friends 
were  invented  for,  hi  Percy's  opinion.  "  Out  of  my 
great  quarrels  I  make  little  songs,"  he  had  once  informed 
Harding. 

"  I  wish  some  one  would  invent  a  drink  that  would 
give  an  appetite  for  life  instead  of  merely  for  dinner," 
he  remarked,  after  the  waiter  had  filled  his  order.  "  And 


THE  TEST  325 

there  is  no  aperitif  that  inspires  me  nowadays  with  a 
desire  to  dine  at  home.  To  sit  opposite  Buttercup  gives 
me  the  feeling  that  I  have  had  a  full  meal  before  I  have 
even  tasted  soup.  It  is  wonderful  what  a  sense  of 
satiety  some  women  cause."  And  he  sighed  wearily. 
"  I  used  to  think  there  was  nothing  like  committing  a 
mistake.  It  gives  you  something  to  remedy.  But 
there  is  no  remedying  Buttercup — unless  she  gets  a 
divorce,  and  that  is  so  unoriginal.  It  is  one  of  those 
uninteresting  privileges  like  having  a  soul  or  a  vote  in 
America.  There  is  nothing  left  any  more  that  isn't 
vulgar.  For  instance,  what  is  more  vulgar  than  sitting 
here  with  you  in  the  rue  Royale?  Americans  have 
made  the  Boulevards  as  bad  as  Broadway.  I  wonder 
what  Barbey  d'Aur6villy  and  other  Empire  dandies 
would  think  if  they  came  back  and  saw  them.  Yes, 
Paris  has  changed,  and  Americans  are  responsible  for 
it.  I  wish  some  one  would  undiscover  America.  But 
then  I  see  it  darkly  through  Miss  Zenobia,  who  is 
coming  to  pay  us  a  visit.  I  shan't  dine  at  home  then, 
I  promise  you.  How  I  hate  that  woman:  can  you 
imagine  any  worse  nightmare  than  her  sunbursts  and 
her  love  string  ?  That  is  one  of  the  beautiful  memories 
I  have  of  Mrs.  Eversley.  Poor  woman,  she  did  under- 
stand how  to  dress  and  carry  off  her  hair.  What  pains 
she  took  to  keep  herself  a  plausible  blonde.  When  she 
asked  me  what  the  colour  of  her  hair  ought  to  be,  I  said 
ash.  Yes,  Nature  meant  her  to  be  an  ash-blonde,  she 
had  an  ash-blonde  soul.  And  so  she  spent  her  time 
ashing,  only  the  raven  was  always  rising,  like  a  phoenix, 


326  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

from  the  ashes.  She  shouldn't  have  quarrelled  with 
me — it  was  one  of  her  mistakes.  But  she  was  always 
committing  them.  I  think  I  must  have  caught  the 
habit  from  her.  But  the  tragedy  is  not  making  them, 
but  living  with  them.  I  wish  Buttercup  would  go  and 
live  with  somebody  else  for  a  while.  It  would  be  a  rest 
for  her  and  a  rest  for  me,  and  for  all  the  rest  too.  It  is 
what  always  happens  if  an  artist  marries.  If  an  artist 
marries  at  all  it  ought  to  be  a  woman  who  offers  no 
resistance — who  is  only  a  blotter  to  her  husband's  copy. 
And  above  all,  she  ought  to  know  how  to  efface  herself. 
But  women  are  like  Solomon's  slave  in  Prior.  '  Abra 
was  ready  when  I  called  her  name,  and  though  I  called 
another,  Abra  came.'  It  is  their  genius  for  always 
being  about,  that  I  most  object  to.  That's  why  I'm 
leaving  Buttercup  at  home,  and  won't  leaveChicot  there 
— she'd  have  worried  him  into  nervous  prostration  by 
the  time  I  got  back."  Sometimes  Percy  talked,  as  Hip- 
pocleides  danced,  in  a  style  pleasing  to  himself,  but  dis- 
gusting to  others.  Well  might  Buttercup  say  that  she 
could  hardly  even  quote  Tennyson  at  him  in  claiming 
to  be  "  something  better  than  his  dog."  But  Harding 
did  not  share  his  enthusiasm,  and  demurred  over  the 
prospect  of  accepting  such  a  tedious  responsibility 
during  Colston's  absence. 

Harding  paid  one  or  two  calls  that  afternoon,  and 
returned  home  to  find  Chicot  curled  up  in  his  own  arm- 
chair. Monica  informed  him  that  Percy  Colston  had 
called,  bringing  the  dog,  and  saying  Julian  had  pro- 
mised to  care  for  it.  Harding  protested  that  he  had 


THE  TEST  327 

never  said  anything  of  the  kind,  and  was  shocked  to 
observe  that  Monica  did  not  even  pretend  to  believe  it. 
So  this  was  the  result  of  his  equivocation  over  the 
manuscript  burning.  Monica  did  not  tell  him  what 
had  occurred  during  the  call,  but  he  could  well  imagine. 
Percy  had  no  doubt  been  as  free  in  his  statements 
about  his  wife  as  about  his  dog.  Harding  taxed  him- 
self with  not  having  spoken  of  those  visits  to  Buttercup, 
for  he  had  no  means  of  knowing  how  far  Colston's 
characteristic  spiteful  insinuations  might  have  gone. 

He  was  alarmed  to  feel  that  Colston's  very  liberty  in 
coming  to  the  house  had  widened  the  breach  between 
Monica  and  him.  It  showed  a  hidden  intimacy  be- 
tween her  husband  and  the  man  who  had  attacked  her 
in  so  cowardly  a  way  by  suggesting  that  her  life- 
tragedy  should  be  exploited  commercially  in  book 
form.  It  was  a  point  of  view  which  left  Harding  almost 
powerless  to  defend  himself.  If  she  was  not  a  woman 
to  forgive  deception,  she  was  still  less  one  to  forgive 
unfaithfulness.  Monica's  eyes  were  hard  as  she  inter- 
rupted him. 

"  You  are  a  free  agent,"  was  all  she  said.  She  had 
used  those  identical  words,  in  referring  to  the  publica- 
tion of  the  manuscript.  Jealousy  and  principle, 
therefore,  awakened  kindred  sentiments  in  her. 

Yes,  she  was  more  human  than  he  thought,  he  re- 
flected that  night,  as  he  faced  her  at  dinner.  There 
was  a  bitter  brooding  look  in  her  eyes — the  look  that 
more  than  once  had  belied  her  calm  exterior.  The 
mask  concealed  that  which  made  him  oddly  nervous 


328  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

as  he  speculated  over  it.  There  were  mysteries  about 
Monica's  character  that  it  was  hopeless  to  gauge.  Her 
strange  eyes  had  once  attracted  him  like  her  beautiful 
hands,  but  he  preferred  now  to  avoid  both.  The  meal 
passed  almost  in  silence,  and  that  night  Monica  took 
possession  of  the  extra  sleeping  chamber  of  the  apart- 
ment. If  he  had  doubted  the  meaning  of  her  air 
before,  he  could  doubt  it  no  longer. 

Pride  withheld  him  from  attempting  to  soften  her 
apparent  impressions  as  to  Buttercup.  As  Nicolls 
chanced  to  call  onV  Monica^  the  following  evening, 
Harding  pointedly  left  them  alone  together.  He  per- 
suaded himself  that  he  at  all  events  was  superior  to 
jealousy — yet  he  knew  that  a  rage  of  jealousy  burned 
his  heart;  and  to  preserve  his  role  he  left  the  house.  It 
was  his  sole  way  to  contain  himself.  Only  after  he  was 
out  did  it  occur  to  him  what  conclusions  Monica  might 
draw;  she  knew  Buttercup's  husband  was  in  London. 


Harding  lunched  out  the  next  day,  and  returned  to 
an  empty  apartment  late  in  the  afternoon.  Monica 
had  probably  gone  to  do  some  tardy  marketing.  Their 
servant  had  left  them  that  morning  and  Harding  had 
proposed  they  dine  at  a  restaurant.  But  Monica 
would  have  her  own  way. 

For  several  days  the  weather  had  been  so  mild  that 
he  had  had  no  fire  in  his  study ;  it  had  fallen  chilly  again, 
and  he  entered  the  small  room  expecting  to  find  the 
salamander  unlighted.  He  was  in  the  habit  of  resting 


THE  TEST  329 

on  the  couch  there  for  a  half -hour  before  dinner,  to  make 
up  for  loss  of  sleep  at  night,  for  he  still  could  not 
conquer  his  habit  of  sleeplessness.  But  Monica  had 
made  the  fire  in  preparation  for  his  return  .  .  .  she  was 
always  mindful  of  his  comfort.  It  touched  him  keenly 
that  she  should  have  done  such  rough  work.  He  could 
not  go  on  like  this.  Yes,  she  might  well  be  excused  for 
repenting  that  she  had  married  him!  He  stretched 
himself  on  the  couch,  and  yielding  to  fatigue,  soon  fell 
asleep.  His  repose  was  fitful,  however,  and  he  was 
pursued  by  disturbing  dreams. 

He  was  awakened,  after  a  little,  by  Chicot's  efforts  to 
attract  his  attention.  The  dog  was  whining,  and  its 
evident  distress  aroused  him  in  a  dim,  dazed  way. 
Then,  as  consciousness  came  more  distinctly,  he  was 
aware  of  suffocation,  of  a  roaring  like  water  in  his  ears. 
Struggling  into  a  sitting  position,  he  put  his  hands  to 
his  head  to  steady  himself — his  temples  were  throbbing 
violently. 

An  instant  need  of  air  caused  him  to  stagger  to  the 
window  and  raise  it.  Breathing  in  gasps,  he  leaned 
there,  until  his  mind  grew  clearer,  his  lungs  free.  Then 
he  remembered  Chicot.  The  little  animal  lay  now  on 
the  floor,  its  body  shaken  by  convulsions.  Fearing  for 
its  life,  Harding  carried  it  into  the  kitchen,  where  he 
dashed  water  on  its  head,  and  after  some  moments  it 
revived. 

On  his  return  to  the  study  he  found  that  though  the 
pure  outside  air  had  freshened  it,  there  still  lingered  the 
sickening  smell  of  oxide  of  carbon.  The  ponderosity 


330  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

of  the  gas,  sinking  to  the  floor,  had  affected  Chicot 
first.  The  dog's  efforts  to  arouse  him  had  saved  both 
their  lives. 

Cursing  salamanders  as  wretched,  dangerous  things, 
he  tottered  over  to  examine  the  stove.  The  workman 
who  had  set  it  up  had  cautioned  him  to  see  that  the 
lid  was  always  securely  closed.  There  was  a  small 
chink  open,  through  which  poison  had  permeated  the 
atmosphere  of  the  small  study.  It  had  been  careless 
of  Monica  .  .  .  and  she  was  not  often  careless.  But 
she  had  probably  been  in  haste  to  get  her  purchases 
before  nightfall. 

He  thought  of  what  her  feelings  would  be — coming 
home  and  finding  him  unconscious,  dead  perhaps  from 
asphyxiation.  She  would  be  stricken  with  horror,  of 
course,  at  the  sight,  and  reproach  herself  for  being  the 
cause. 

Yet — he  mused  a  little  bitterly — might  not  there 
be  relief  in  the  end?  The  relief  of  no  longer  being 
bound  to  a  man  who  offended  her  feelings  about  life, 
who  had  not  succeeded  even  in  making  a  home  for 
her.  Yes,  he  had  a  picture  of  her  in  her  calm,  dignfied 
widowhood.  Nicolls  would  come  to  offer  sympathy 
as  she  struggled  on,  alone,  with  her  Art  work.  Then, 
after  a  decent  while,  he  would  propose  to  her  again.  .  . 
and  this  time  she  would  accept  him. 

It  was  rather  a  pity  after  all  the  accident  hadn't 
done  its  work — rid  her  of  him !  It  might  as  well  have 
happened.  He  hadn't  much  hold  of  life.  He  never 
had  had.  He  was  one  of  the  Creator's  mistakes. 


THE  TEST  331 

His  marriage  had  been  a  mistake,  as  Percy  Colston 
said.  The  Labyrinth  of  Life  had  been  another.  What 
a  part  it  had  played  in  his  life.  It  had  pursued  him 
like  a  Nemesis,  weaving  into  all  the  issues  of  his 
marriage. 

The  remembrance  of  the  book,  always  ready  to 
come  into  his  mind  as  the  cause  of  his  unhappiness, 
started  a  train  of  thought.  It  was  broken,  a  little  con- 
fused, for  his  head  was  still  heavy  and  violently  aching. 

It  occurred  to  him  that  the  salamander  would  have 
been  a  much  more  artistic  way  of  killing  the  victim 
in  his  story  than  the  one  he  had  devised.  It  would 
have  been  as  simple  and  as  effective,  and  it  could  be 
so  easily  attributed  to  unintentional  causes,  explained 
as  a  "  deplorable  accident."  Who  would  have 
doubted?  Yes,  it  was  such  an  easy  way  to  get  rid 
of  some  one — he  wondered  criminals  did  not  oftener 
adopt  it. 

If  Monica  had  meant  to  dispose  of  him  in  that  way 
who  would  have  dreamed  of  suspecting  her?  As  she 
had  once  affirmed,  she  struggled  to  combat  any  evil 
tendencies  that  might  have  been  handed  down  to 
her  from  her  criminal  grandmother. 

He  wondered  if  Monica  knew  that  her  hands  were 
in  themselves  a  kind  of  provocation  for  moral  struggle. 
He  supposed  she  didn't — like  her  mother— ever  go  to 
consult  Madame  de  Kansa,  and  consequently  she  had 
never  seen  the  cast  of  the  Marquise  de  Brinvillier's 
hands.  He  wondered  in  a  dull  way  whether  poisoners 
had  a  definite  type  of  hand.  Whether  Monica  had 


332  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

inherited  hers  from  her  grandmother.  It  was  absurd 
that  she  should  possess  such  an  incongruity  ...  a 
poisoner's  hands.  The  refined,  lady-like  sort,  of 
course.  The  kind  one  naturally  associated  with  a 
Marquise  de  Brinvilliers  ...  or  a  Mrs.  Perdoe. 

Was  there  in  Monica  a  kind  of  fear — a  fear  lying 
deep  down  in  her  consciousness — that,  granting  she 
knew  about  her  hands,  she  might  have  strange  tempta- 
tions ? 

How  absurd  to  suppose  that  Monica  ever  had 
such  thoughts.  Yet  the  idea  of  Monica  in  connection 
with  her  ancestry  continued  to  haunt  him.  He  had 
never  really  thought  out  what  it  all  must  have  meant 
to  her.  How  little  he  really  knew  her.  He  remem- 
bered the  night  he  had  stood,  unseen,  at  the  threshold 
of  her  studio  and  watched  her  work.  Her  face  had 
been  strange.  He  would  not  have  believed  it  could 
look  so  hard,  as  she  bent  over  her  scales,  measuring  in 
that  fine,  delicate  way  the  white  powder  she  poured 
out  of  the  bottle.  One  could  always  take  it  for 
granted  that  there  were  closets,  dark  rooms,  secret 
drawers. 

Yet,  as  to  Monica,  the  association  with  weakness 
was  ridiculous.  He  had  only  to  remember  her  argu- 
ments with  him.  The  moral  elevations  she  asserted, 
her  continual  insistence  on  ideals,  were  almost  super- 
human. Yet  who  argued  theology  better  than  the 
devil? 

He  had  arrived,  before  he  knew  it,  at  suspicion. 


THE  TEST  333 

She  might  argue,  she  might  try  to  live  on  a  high 
plane,  but  behind  her  was  a  criminal  grandmother, 
and  nearer  was  a  frivolous  mother  who,  late  in  life, 
had  misappropriated  a  fortune,  and  had  started  out 
in  girlhood  as  a  perjurer — he  was  sure  she  had — when 
called  as  a  witness  to  save  Mrs.  Perdoe.  Now  Monica's 
turn  to  be  tempted  might  have  come — passion  urged 
on  by  the  demon  of  jealousy  which  Percy  had  raised. 
And  Harding  had  noted  that  jealousy  had  upon  her 
an  effect  akin  to  principle. 

A  piece  of  circumstantial  evidence  was  added  to 
the  theory  about  Monica  which  was  forging  itself  in 
his  brain.  The  servant  .  .  .  why  had  she  discharged 
the  servant  that  very  morning  ?  She  had  said  it  was 
because  the  girl  was  unsatisfactory.  But  it  also  left 
her  alone  to  carry  out  her  designs.  Monica  had  gone 
away,  presumably  on  a  marketing  expedition.  But 
marketing  ought  to  be  done  in  the  morning. 

He  heard  her  enter,  and  he  sat  silent,  waiting. 

She  went  to  the  rear  of  the  apartment,  no  doubt  to 
deposit  her  purchases.  But  now  she  came  towards  his 
study.  He  could  hear  her  step  and  how  it  paused 
outside  the  door. 

Why  did  she  pause?  Was  she  wondering  if  her 
attempt  on  his  life  had  been  successful  ? 

He  coughed,  and  she  opened  the  door. 

She  presented  herself  to  his  observing  eyes  in  the 
rftle  he  might  have  expected.  She  was  quietly  dressed, 
as  one  would  dress  in  going  shopping.  Her  veil  was 


334  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

raised  and  one  hand  ungloved;  she  had  discarded  it 
on  entering  the  house.  How  innocent  she  looked  in 
her  young  maturity.  She  seemed  surprised  at  finding 
him  sitting  up  and  looking  pale,  disturbed.  She 
looked  just  surprised  enough — not  too  much  so. 

"  Is  that  you?  "  he  said.  It  was  a  banal  question, 
such  as  one  utters  often. 

"  Yes,  I  was  wondering  if  you  were  asleep." 

He  smiled  ironically.  "  I  might  have  enjoyed 
eternal  sleep.  Colston's  dog  awoke  me  in  time.  The 
lid  of  the  stove  was  not  shut.  I  was  almost  asphyxi- 
ated." 

"  But  surely  I  closed  it!  " 

"  You  left  a  nice  little  chink,"  he  returned. 

She  looked  shocked.  "  Julian !  Oh,  how  careless 
of  me!  How  do  you  feel  now?  "  She  came  forward 
and  put  out  her  hand. 

"  Don't !  "  he  exclaimed,  thrusting  her  aside.  "  I 
can't  bear  you  to  touch  me  .  .  .  with  those  hands." 

"  My  hands!  "  she  echoed. 

"  Yes,  your  hands !  I  hate  them !  How  did  you 
happen  to  have  hands  like  that?  They  are  like  the 
cast  of  the  Marquise  de  Brinvilliers'.  .  ." 

"  The  Marquise  de  Brinvilliers  ?  "  From  her  air 
one  might  have  supposed  she  didn't  know,  but  of 
course  she  knew. 

"  She  was  a  lady  of  the  last  century,"  he  answered 
grimly;  "  quite  an  interesting  person;  I  wonder  you 
have  never  read  her  biography.  She  throws  her 


THE  TEST  335 

modern  imitators  in  the  shade.  Don't  pretend  you 
never  saw  her  hands  at  Madame  de  Kansa's." 

Still  she  did  not  appear  to  understand,  but  she 
drew  enough  from  his  air  to  say:  "  I  have  never  been 
to  Madame  de  Kansa's;  she  was  my  mother's  friend, 
not  mine." 

"  H — m,  you  are  right  not  to  go,"  he  sneered. 
"  She  mayn't  be  an  inspired  prophet,  but  she  draws 
queer  conclusions  sometimes.  Suppose  she  was  to 
say  accidents  with  salamanders  can  be  happy 
solutions — suppose  she  should  describe  you^as  a 
prosperous  widow " 

"  A  prosperous  widow!  "  she  repeated. 

"  Yes,  a  pleasantly  re-married  widow,  and,  what- 
ever you  might  think,  Nicolls  couldn't  be  grateful 
enough  to  that  little  dose  of  carbonic  gas.  So  easy, 
who  would  suspect  ?  I  wonder  that  wives  with  worth- 
less husbands  don't  think  of  it  oftener." 

It  appeared  that  she  knew  he  was  not  well,  that  it 
was  foolish  to  attach  importance  to  his  words.  He 
looked  so  pale,  so  overwrought,  that  her  solicitude  was 
aroused  to  a  degree  that  it  dominated  everything  else. 
But  he  was  in  the  grip  of  his  suspicions.  He  remem- 
bered how  well  she  had  acted  at  the  garden  party 
when,  as  he  knew  from  Miss  Fitzgerald,  her  smile  in 
crowning  Percy  Colston  disguised  her  actual  dislike. 
He  would  make  himself  plainer,  since  it  was  necessary. 

But  he  was  spared  this.     It  suddenly  came  to  her. 

"  You  mean  you  think  that  I  did  it  on  purpose  ?  " 


336  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

His  look,  his  smile  sufficed.  She  stood  rigid  a 
moment;  seemed  to  make  an  effort  to  speak,  and  not 
succeed;  another  moment  passed,  during  which  he 
could  not  make  sure  whether  her  attitude  was  hesita- 
tion or  powerlessness.  Then  she  left  the  room. 

He  did  not  bother  about  her  going.  He  felt  the 
emptiness  of  the  room,  and  hugged  the  dog  which 
had  saved  him.  He  did  not  care  much  about  any- 
thing. Oh,  yes,  he  did — he  wanted  air. 


337 


CHAPTER  XI 

His  instinct  was  blindly  to  escape  the  house,  escape 
Monica.  He  carried  the  dog  along,  because  the  little 
animal  had  saved  his  life;  besides,  they  were  com- 
panions in  misery. 

He  made  his  way  downstairs  and  drew  in  long, 
reviving  breaths  as  he  reached  the  street.  His  head 
still  violently  throbbed,  but  his  mind  was  beginning 
to  clear,  and  he  asked  himself  where  he  was  going. 
Anywhere  would  do. 

He  walked  as  far  as  the  quays,  still  with  uncertain 
step;  but,  as  he  caught  sight  of  the  Seine,  a  strange, 
sudden,  reeling  sensation  took  him,  and  he  made  his 
way  to  a  convenient  corner  tavern,  where  he  called 
for  brandy.  It  revived  him,  and  he  moved  on  again. 
But  before  long  a  recurrence  of  the  after-effects  of 
poisoning  seized  him,  and  he  was  just  able  to  get  as 
far  as  the  next  tavern  and  sink  down  on  a  seat.  The 
sensations  were  so  alarming  that  he  thought  he  was 
going  to  die.  He  wondered  what  was  the  effect  on 
the  dog.  It  was  breathing  in  short  gasps,  with  occa- 
sional convulsive  tremors,  and,  soothing  it,  he  poured 
a  few  drops  of  brandy  and  water  down  its  throat.  Then, 
yielding  to  drowsy  fatigue,  he  nodded,  finally  to  start 
awake  with  a  sense  of  choking  and  a  dream  of  Monica 
over  him  with  her  horrible  white  hands;  but  he  had 

z 


338  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

nevertheless  slept  some  time,  and  meanwhile  night 
had  deepened.  He  looked  at  the  clock:  it  was  after 
eight.  He  ought  to  get  something  to  eat;  and,  stagger- 
ing out  of  the  wine  shop — where  the  proprietor  viewed 
him  as  an  eccentric  inebriate — he  found  a  cab  and 
drove  to  a  restaurant  on  the  other  side  of  the  river. 
His  wretchedness  craved  some  brilliantly  lighted 
place  where  there  were  faces,  music  perhaps.  He 
feared  to  be  alone  in  the  night,  with  the  strange  reeling 
sensations  coming  to  him  at  intervals.  But  the 
restoratives  he  had  hastily  gulped  down  had  helped. 
It  sustained  him  for  the  moment,  permitted  him  to 
think  a  little,  though  it  was  confused  thinking,  and 
his  mind  was  still  unable  to  grapple  with  any  question 
beyond  immediate  ways  and  means.  He  hugged  the 
dog  to  his  breast,  endeavouring  to  give  the  animal 
comfort;  it,  too,  was  plainly  suffering.  Once  or  twice 
he  fancied  it  had  gasped  its  last. 

Only  when  seated  in  the  restaurant  after  ordering 
something  to  eat  at  hasty  random,  did  the  problem 
what  to  do  with  Chicot  present  itself.  Much  as  he 
hated  Colston  at  that  moment,  he  was  aware  what 
an  accident  to  the  dog  would  mean  to  him.  The  poet 
was  attached  to  it,  as  he  knew.  He  did  not  want  it 
to  die  on  his  hands.  He  saw  that  his  condition  and 
that  of  his  companion  were  attracting  a  great  deal  of 
attention  round  him.  He  regretted  coming  to  such  a 
public  place;  but  he  had  not  the  strength  to  leave. 
And  he  sat  on,  eating  with  nausea,  and  drinking  more 
than  he  ate.  The  wine  was  beginning  to  check  the 


THE  TEST  339 

violent  pin- wheel  spinning  inside  his  brain.  He  con- 
sidered the  situation  while  he  tempted  Chicot  with 
morsels  from  his  plate — but  the  animal  refused  food 
and  had  begun  whining,  as  though  not  sharing  the 
other's  satisfaction  with  their  surroundings.  It  was 
a  delicate,  aristocratic  little  dog,  and  manifested, 
Harding  fancied,  the  sentiment  that  if  it  was  going 
to  die,  it  desired  to  do  so  on  its  own  silken  bed  at  home 
in  the  Colstons'  lordly  mansion. 

Harding  finally  decided  that  the  best  thing  alto- 
gether was  to  deliver  it  into  Buttercup's  care.  The 
lateness  of  the  hour — for  he  had  dallied  over  his 
neglected  meal — warned  him  that  if  he  was  to  put 
the  resolve  into  effect  that  night,  he  must  lose  no  time. 

On  the  way  to  the  Avenue  du  Bois  de  Boulogne  he 
dosed  again  from  the  effect  of  the  wine  he  had  drunk, 
and  only  started  awake  as  the  vehicle  stopped. 

Buttercup  was  fortunately  at  home — she  had  just 
returned  from  an  evening  entertainment,  the  servant 
informed  him,  with  a  rather  condemnatory  air,  as  he 
marked  the  visitor's  dishevelled  appearance.  The 
servants  at  the  Colstons'  were  of  a  stately  order,  and 
emanated  a  consciousness  of  being  object-lessons  in 
deportment.  No  doubt  the  proprieties  were  more 
respected  below  stairs  than  above.  The  man's  man- 
ner was,  however,  just  the  brace  Harding  needed  at 
the  moment,  and  he  entered  the  drawing-room  with 
self-possession. 

It  was  a  salon  of  great  dimensions,  a  succession  of 
rooms  in  which  a  glare  of  gorgeousness  melted  into 

Z2 


340  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

impressive  perspective.  Hiram  Baxter  had  given 
wholesale  orders  for  the  decoration  of  the  house,  in 
which  Percy's  own  taste  raised  a  feeble  cry,  as  a  drown- 
ing man  on  a  spar  signals  to  the  bellied  bulk  of  an 
ocean  steamer.  The  pieces  of  furniture  that  had 
represented  Percy's  purchase  of  Mrs.  Eversley's 
refined  pretensions  scattered  about  ached  with  more 
than  antiquity's  rheumatism  in  this  oasis  of  splendour. 
"  Surpassing  Ceylon  "  seemed  stamped  on  everything, 
as  golden  bees  of  Napoleon  bloom  on  First  Empire 
furniture. 

Harding  advanced,  bearing  Chicot  under  his  arm 
like  a  burdened  Pilgrim  in  the  House  Beautiful. 
Buttercup  was  at  a  desk  re-reading  a  note,  and  from 
the  absorption  expressed  in  the  act,  her  visitor  felt 
sure  it  was  not  written  to  Percy.  Her  gay,  satin- 
lined  cloak,  which  she  had  cast  on  a  chair,  made  a 
vivid  splash  of  colour.  But  the  regality  of  the  tegu- 
ment she  had  discarded  had  only  concealed  the  regality 
of  the  costume  under  it.  Buttercup  was  a  duchess 
to-night  in  all  the  imitated  insignia  of  clothes.  Harding 
had  not  seen  her  in  evening  dress  for  several  years,  and 
he  was  struck  by  the  effect.  She  was  certainly  a 
splendid  animal.  Her  reddish  hair  shone  beneath 
the  electric  chandelier  that  blazed  with  the  reckless- 
ness of  knowing  it  could  be  paid  for  and  the  amount 
never  missed.  Buttercup's  beauty  was  the  kind  that 
could  stand  light.  If  anything,  light  reduced  it  to 
that  less  barbarian  glow  which  was  its  owner's  aim 
since  she  had  mixed  with  more  anaemic  members  of  a 


THE  TEST  341 

semi-fashionable  world.  She  was  bending  over  the 
desk;  and,  at  a  distance,  ere  she  looked  up,  Harding's 
glance  caught  sight  of  the  strong  black  scrawl.  Butter- 
cup's hand  was  as  dashing  as  the  rest  of  her — a  few 
sentences  filled  a  page. 

"  Good  heavens !  "  she  exclaimed,  "  why  on  earth 
are  you  coming  at  this  hour  .  .  .  and  what  is  the  matter 
with  you  ?  You  look  like  a  resurrected  Lazarus !  " 

"  I  am,"  he  said  grimly,  "  I  have  just  been  resusci- 
tated .  .  .  and  haven't  had  time  to  change  my  grave 
clothes.  So  please  excuse  their  death  damps.  Your 
man  crossed  himself  when  he  saw  me  and  called  on 
all  the  saints.  But  I  am  quite  harmless,  so  don't  be 
alarmed."  And  he  laughed  rather  foolishly. 

"  But  I  am,"  she  said.  "  I  never  saw  such  a  sight. 
And  why  are  you  hugging  Chicot  ?  " 

"  Oh,  well,  because  Chicot  is  my  mascot.  If 
it  weren't  for  him,  I  should  not  be  here.  He  deserves 
a  better  fate  than  asphyxiation,  so  I  am  returning  him 
to  a  safer  atmosphere — steam  heat.  Please  take  him." 
And  he  sat  down  suddenly  on  the  chair  near  him. 
"  Give  me  a  little  brandy,  won't  you?  " 

"  Of  course,  you  can  have  some  if  you  want,"  she 
responded,  still  examining  him  in  doubt.  "  But  I 
should  say  you  have  already  had  enough  to  drown  a 
Duke  of  Clarence."  Buttercup's  allusions  were  cer- 
tainly getting  literary.  "  Influence  of  Percy,"  Harding 
murmured  to  himself  as  he  returned  aloud: 

"  Oh,  don't  butt  me  any  Duke  of  Clarence  butts, 
Buttercup," — admiring  his  own  sorry  wit  and  appre- 


342  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

dating  the  alliteration,  "  but  get  me  some  brandy, 
and  then  I'll  tell  you  all  the  secrets  of  my  prison  house." 
His  own  humour  was  so  outre  to  himself  that  he  won- 
dered at  it. 

"  Oh,  if  you  can  be  that  bright,"  she  returned  sar- 
castically. She  touched  the  bell  and  bade  the  servant 
bring  brandy.  Harding  waited  without  speech,  and 
after  he  had  swallowed  a  generous  glassful,  he  sat 
regarding  her  with  bright  eyes.  The  chandeliers  had 
multiplied,  and  he  imagined  they  were  shaking  with 
mirth  at  his  sally.  He  felt  like  making  sallies  one 
after  another.  "  Yes,  I'll  out-dazzle  the  Colston 
chandeliers,"  he  said  to  himself. 

"  And  now,  perhaps,  you'll  tell  me  why  I  am 
honoured  with  this  absolutely  inexcusable  late  call, 
my  dear  Julian,"  he  heard  Buttercup's  voice  float  to 
him  from  immeasurable  distances;  "  I  am  not  in  the 
habit  of  receiving  visitors  at  midnight,  and  it  is  not 
considered  comme  il  faut,  you  know,  to  enter  a  lady's 
drawing-room  asking  for  drinks,  as  though  you  were 
at  Maxim's." 

He  raised  a  protesting  hand.  "  Now,  Buttercup," 
he  said,  "  don't  you  use  that  '  familiar  quotation  ' 
French  of  yours.  If  you  want  to  be  familiar,  be  it  in 
ordinary  English.  But  we  never  have  been  familiar, 
have  we  ?  "  His  voice  had  an  odd  drawl.  "  I  don't 
care  what  Percy  says  ...  we  haven't.  We  haven't, 
and  Monica  needn't  say  we  have.  He  called  at  my 
prison  house  and  told  things  that  nearly  caused  my 
death.  I  declare  to  you  he  nearly  caused  my  death. 


THE  TEST  343 

The  trouble  he  has  made  has  just  bred  like  rabbits  .  .  . 
No,  like  salamanders.  I  suppose  you  know  what  a 
salamander  is?  Francis  the  First  adopted  them  .  .  . 
to  express  what  he  thought  of  women.  You  remem- 
ber what  he  wrote  with  a  diamond  ring  on  the  window 
pane  at  his  chateau,  what's  the  name  of  it  ?  ...  Sham 
something,  down  in  Touraine?  You  must  have  seen 
it  when  you  took  that  motor  trip  of  yours.  Was  it 
a  motor  trip  or  was  it  a  motive  trip,  Buttercup  ?  " 

'  You're  drunk  or  out  of  your  head,"   she  said. 
"  What  do  you  mean  by  coming  here  in  your  cups  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  sallied,  "  I  am  in  my  cups,  my  butter- 
cups, and  so  I  fly  to  my  butterfly." 

"  I  think  the  best  thing  for  you  would  be  to  go 
home,"  she  said  hastily,  as  she  directed  a  glance 
towards  the  hall.  For  once  she  was  rather  glad  to 
think  the  servant  was  hanging  inquisitively  about. 
She  preferred  tea-drinkers  to  brandy-drinkers,  and 
Julian's  grotesque  state  made  her  ill  at  ease. 

"  But  I  haven't  any  home,"  he  asserted  thickly, 
"  that's  why  I  came  to  see  you — I  haven't  any  home. 
I  never  was  good  at  making  homes.  No,  nobody  will 
carve  that  on  my  tomb,  that  I  was  a  good  home- 
maker.  I  don't  know  what  I'm  good  for.  You  can 
tell  me.  You  used  to  think  something  of  me,  didn't 
you,  Tea-rose?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  used  to  think  of  you,"  was 
her  answer,  "  but  I  know  what  I  think  of  you  now.  If 
you  don't  tell  me  why  you  are  here,  I  shall  really  have 
to  excuse  myself."  And  she  made  an  impatient  stir. 


344  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

"Oh,  do  you  have  to  excuse  yourself,  too?  "  he 
said,  with  an  air  of  interest.  "  I  thought  that  was  my 
vocation.  I've  been  excusing  myself  ever  since  I  was 
born.  I've  been  excusing  myself  ever  since  I  was 
married.  I  ought  to  have  excused  myself  for  not 
getting  out  of  the  world  this  afternoon  .  .  .  me  and 
Chicot.  It  was  my  Creator's  place  to  do  the  excus- 
ing .  .  .  but  he  shoved  it  on  me.  Wasn't  right,  but  he 
did."  And  his  face  gloomed.  "  I'm  in  the  way, 
Buttercup,"  he  went  on  with  sudden  hoarseness.  He 
leaned  towards  her.  "  That's  the  secret  of  my  prison- 
house  . . .  I'm  in  the  way.  Give  me  your  hand,  Butter- 
cup ...  I  want  to  look  at  your  hand.  See  what  kind 
of  a  hand  you've  got."  He  tried  to  take  it. 

"  My  hand,  as  it  happens,  is  already  given."  She 
laughed  a  little  harshly.  "  There's  nothing  the  matter 
with  it  ...  there  never  was.  If  you've  come  here  to 
re-examine  it,  my  dear  Julian,  you're  wasting  your 
time."  And  instinctively  her  glance  fell  on  the 
unfinished  note  on  the  escritoire  near  her. 

"  Yes,  it  was  a  nice  hand,"  he  mused.  '  You 
oughtn't  to  have  given  it  to  Percy,  you  know.  It's  a 
royal  flush;  your  mistake  was  to  bluff  when  you  had 
the  jack-pot  playing  straight.  So  you  lost.  And  if 
I'd  only  held  your  hand — for  life — I'd  have  won." 

"  I'm  greatly  flattered,  I  assure  you,"  she  replied 
with  a  short  laugh,  the  laugh  that  had  come  with  her 
marriage.  "  But  you  are  rather  late  in  reaching  that 
conclusion."  She  regarded  him  fixedly  for  a  moment 
before  she  went  on:  "I  can  guess  you  have  had  a 


THE  TEST  345 

falling  out  with  that  ideal  wife  of  yours.  And  you 
would  like  me  to  play  the  consolation  prize.  It  was 
what  I  always  knew  would  happen.  Do  you  imagine  " 
— and  her  eyes  were  bright  with  the  vehemence  of 
long-nurtured  feelings—"  that  I  have  ever  forgiven  you 
for  the  way  you  treated  me  ?  I  hate  you  for  it,  I  hate 
you  for  what  it  drove  me  to.  You  have  ruined  my 
life,  and  I  hope  you  have  ruined  your  own  .  .  .  you 
have  ruined  it.  If  there  ever  was  a  ruin,  you  are  one 
to-night  ...  a  ruin  without  even  ivy  or  any  other 
picturesque  feature  of  ruins  about  you.  I  saw  you 
were  going  down  hill,  that  first  day  when  I  met  you 
in  the  Bois,  when  you  talked  about  '  moving  slow.' 
Yes,  you  are  slow,  slow  in  everything  but  the  way 
you  have  crumbled  to  nothing  . . .  that  was  fast  enough. 
Now  you  can  tell  yourself  I've  been  playing  with  you. 
.  .  .  Do  you  understand?  Hiram  Baxter,  the  tea 
merchant's  daughter,  who  wasn't  good  enough  for 
you  to  propose  to,  has  been  amusing  herself  with  you. 
And  now  I  think  you  had  better  leave."  She  breathed 
sharply.  "I'll  send  you  and  your  brandy  home  in 
my  motor."  And  she  rang  the  bell. 

Her  words  half  sobered  him. 

"  Once  again,  there's  enough  motive  without  your 
motor,"  he  said.  "  Here's  Chicot — I  suppose  it's  he 
brought  me.  He's  got  a  right  here,  any  way.  I'll 
leave  him  to  shake  his  jester's  bells.  Life  is  a  jest, 
and  some  things  show  it ;  I  used  to  think  so,  but  it  was 
left  for  you  to  make  me  know  it.  That's  not  how  it 
goes,  but  I  guess  it  will  do.  As  you  are  fond  of  quota- 


346  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

tions,  my  dear  Primrose — or,  shall  I  say,  Primcup — 
I  needn't  apologize." 


Harding  returned  to  his  house  in  the  early  morning 
light.  He  had  a  dimmed  sense  of  wandering  through 
rain-soaked  streets  and  having  been  wet  and  tired  and 
miserable.  He  neither  knew  nor  cared  about  it  now. 
Daylight  had  cleared  his  brain  just  as  the  night  air 
had  cleared  his  study  of  miasmas.  He  had  gone  to 
a  hotel  to  make  himself  presentable  and  get  his  early 
coffee.  And  now  he  was  prepared  to  face  Monica, 
ready  to  accept  his  responsibilities  and  to  spare  hers. 

Strong  physical  and  moral  reactions  had  freed  him 
from  such  strains  of  weakness  and  morbidness  as  had 
survived  his  theoretical  speculations.  The  salamander 
episode  was  a  mere  vague  nightmare,  he  had  gone  back 
beyond  that.  He  realized  that  he  had  tried  his  wife: 
he  convinced  himself  that  nerve-control  and  common- 
sense  could  yet  mend  things.  He  had  but  to  recognize 
the  vanity  of  trying  to  explain  things  of  life  on  which 
people  tried  to  found  principles:  as  a  writer,  he  knew 
how  much  people  would  innocently  accept  in  daily  life, 
while  denouncing  it  in  their  finest  language.  He  told 
himself:  "  She  is  my  wife,  she  has  made  sacrifices  for 
me;  she  accepted  all,  so  long  as  I  did  not  force  my 
views  on  her;  my  attempts  to  make  her  understand 
conditions  have  caused  more  trouble  than  the  condi- 
tions themselves;  we  got  on  while  I  was  leading  a 
perfectly  egotistical  life;  why  should  we  not  continue 


THE  TEST  347 

to  get  along  in  silence,  provided  I  make  the  effort  to 
be  tactful  and  generous  in  little  ways,  and  conciliate 
her  without  her  knowing  it." 

He  reached  his  house  door;  the  janitress  called  to 
him  as  he  passed  the  lodge. 

"  Madame  has  gone  out,"  the  woman  said  with  a  leer. 

"  Did  she  say  how  long  she  would  be?  "  Harding 
asked  carelessly,  thinking  of  the  usual  morning  errands. 

"  She  said  nothing.     But  she  took  her  trunks." 


348 


CHAPTER  XII 

MONICA,  in  leaving  the  apartment,  had  had  no  definite 
idea  beyond  gaining  the  outside  world,  where  she  could 
think  and  act  in  freedom.  She  gave  Elsie  Fitzgerald's 
new  address  in  the  Avenue  Victor  Hugo  to  the  cabman, 
intending  to  leave  her  trunks  there  until  she  could 
make  plans  for  the  future;  and  it  seemed  to  her  that 
the  horse  walked  at  snail  pace,  so  harassed  was  she 
by  the  thought  Harding  might  follow  her,  demand 
pardon,  bid  her  return.  And  she  knew  that  all  he 
might  say  would  fall  on  an  unheeding  ear,  that  she 
would  not  be  able  to  respond.  Power  of  speech  was 
frozen  in  her,  everything  dead  except  mere  mechanical 
acts;  the  practised  self-control  of  a  lifetime  had 
deserted  her,  leaving  her  prey  to  a  dull  sense  of  des- 
peration and  outrage.  Stabbed  to  the  quick  by  the 
implication  of  his  words,  she  could  never  bear  even  to 
see  him  again.  He  had  released  her  from  all  obliga- 
tion as  a  wife;  the  woman  was  all  that  was  left;  and 
her  womanhood  was  her  own  henceforth. 

She  yielded  almost  without  resistance  to  Elsie 
Fitzgerald's  plea  that  she  share  her  home;  Monica 
tasted  new  pleasures  in  such  passiveness,  and  perhaps 
Miss  Fitzgerald  did,  too. 

Monica  rested  for  several  days,  during  which  Julian 
wrote  to  her,  and  she  answered  with  a  firm  brevity 


THE  TEST  349 

which  she  knew  would  be  accepted  as  final.  Then 
she  went  out  to  visit  various  art  dealers  on  whom  she 
would  depend  thenceforth  for  her  means  of  livelihood. 
But  now  that  the  weight  of  her  pain  began  to  lift  a 
little  under  the  relief  of  occupation,  now  that  she 
could  forget  for  an  occasional  instant  that  her  husband 
had  even  for  a  moment  considered  her  a  murderess, 
the  grounds  for  his  suspicions  appeared  more  clearly 
before  her.  He  reproached  her  not  only  with  her 
heredity,  in  the  power  of  which  she  knew  he  believed, 
but  also  with  having  hands  like  the  Marquise  de 
Brinvilliers,  whose  history  Monica  now  read  up.  She 
had  never  been  to  Madame  de  Kansa's;  she  determined 
to  go  and  see  at  least  the  casts  to  which  Harding  had 
alluded — and,  perhaps,  see  the  prophet-psychologist, 
too. 

Madame  de  Kansa's  waiting-room  seemed,  in  its 
peculiar  furnishings,  a  reflection  of  the  famous  chiro- 
mancer herself.  It  was  as  full  of  strange  objects  as 
its  owner's  mind  was  stored  with  strange  knowledge. 
The  seeress's  position  in  Paris  was  unique.  She 
claimed  to  have  elevated  palm-reading  to  an  exact 
science  which  could  be  of  practical  benefit  in  directing 
one's  life.  There  was  no  cheap  charlatanism  in  the 
way  she  dealt  with  clients,  none  of  the  usual  hocus 
pocus  practised  by  those  who  sound  the  future.  Even 
those  who  came  to  her  holding  the  opinion  about 
palmists  Voltaire  entertained  about  priests — that 
human  credulity  made  all  their  science — went  away 
convinced  of  one  thing  at  least,  that  Madame  de  Kansa 


350  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

was  an  astute  psychologist.  It  was  by  reading  the 
heart  as  well  as  the  hand,  by  her  magnetism  and  art 
of  sympathy,  and  by  strict  conscientiousness  about 
the  advice  she  gave,  that  this  ardent  follower  of 
Desbarolles  had  become  a  force  in  the  Paris  world. 

Monica,  her  face  covered  by  a  heavy  veil,  looked 
about  her  curiously  as  she  waited.  Opposite  to  her 
on  the  wall  was  a  full-length  portrait  of  Madame  de 
Kansa,  done  by  a  celebrated  French  artist,  a  masterly 
delineation  of  the  original's  pale,  tragic  face,  with 
its  deep-red  sybilline  lips  A  cabinet  near  by  held, 
among  other  objects,  a  Cagliostro  manuscript.  There 
were  rare  old  astrological  tomes,  magic  crystals,  and 
examples  of  Eastern  mystic  art.  Scattered  about  the 
room  were  numberless  signed  photographs  of  nota- 
bilities, on  which  were  inscribed  nattering  testi- 
monials to  the  skill  with  which  the  seeress  had  de- 
ciphered their  fate.  But  Monica's  glance  rested  on 
these  things  impatiently.  It  sought  the  only  object 
in  the  room  that  interested  her — the  plaster  casts  of 
the  Marquise  de  Brinvilliers'  hands. 

It  was  for  that  she  had  come.  Julian  had  lied  to 
her  once,  which  meant  that  he  might  lie  again — and 
she  wished  to  know  the  truth.  The  casts  lay  among 
a  variety  of  similar  ornaments  on  a  table;  and,  after 
a  moment,  trusting  to  the  absorption  of  the  other 
clients  in  their  own  affairs,  she  arose  and  took  up  the 
object  with  an  air  of  casual  attraction. 

Yes,  it  resembled  her  hand — so  much  so  that  Julian 
might  well  be  impressed.  Yet,  after  the  first  shock  of 


THE  TEST  351 

the  discovery,  she  examined  the  cast  more  closely, 
comparing  it  with  her  own  ungloved  hand.  They  were 
alike,  it  was  true,  in  general  conformation;  but  there 
were  differences,  too,  many  small  differences.  She 
drew  a  breath  of  half  relief.  But  the  resemblance  was 
sufficiently  striking  to  decide  her.  She  would  see 
Madame  de  Kansa,  and  trust  to  the  disguise  of  the 
thick  veil.  The  palmist  was  almost  a  stranger — they 
had  met  only  once,  that  time  at  the  house,  and  it  was 
likely  the  other  had  forgotten  her. 

But  among  Madame  de  Kansa's  other  gifts  was  an 
unusual  memory;  and  the  night  she  had  dined  at  Mrs. 
Eversley's  she  had  chanced  to  remark  Monica's  hands 
caressing  the  ivory  paper-knife,  with  Harding  near  by. 
Her  trained  powers  of  observation  had,  indeed,  re- 
marked far  more.  The  daughter  of  her  pretty  butter- 
fly friend  had  interested  her  as  a  type,  especially  in 
view  of  what  she  knew  of  the  family  history — Mrs. 
Eversley  had  told  her  much  in  consulting  her.  When, 
later,  she  had  received  the  announcement  of  the 
marriage  of  Miss  Eversley  to  the  young  American 
writer  who  had  once  interviewed  her,  she  was  not 
surprised,  she  had  anticipated  the  mutual  attraction 
and  what  might  follow.  Nor  did  she  need  to  be  told 
why  Monica  had  sought  her — the  veil  was  in  itself 
a  betrayal.  But  that  she  concealed,  as  she  also  con- 
cealed the  fact  that  she  recognized  the  identity  of 
her  client. 

She  had  been  fond  of  Mrs.  Eversley,  whose  child- 
like trust  in  her  counsels  had  both  touched  her  and 


352  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

been  useful  to  her  in  Mrs.  Eversley's  set;  and  she 
meant  to  deal  gently  with  the  daughter.  Yet  her 
professional  pride  was  aroused  by  Monica's  haughty, 
almost  slighting  manner.  "  I  wish  you  to  be  frank," 
her  visitor  had  said  with  repressed  antagonism,  as 
she  took  a  seat  in  the  little  private  office  at  a  table, 
with  its  shaded  lamp.  And  the  seeress  had  told 
many  truths. 

"  Self -suppression,"  she  observed  after  a  little,  "  is, 
madame,  your  most  dominant  trait.  You  are  an 
exceptional  instance  of  mental  and  moral  reaction. 
Your  girlhood  had  a  great  shock,  and  it  has  left  you 
hard  with  yourself  and  others.  It  is  one  of  the  causes 
of  your  present  unhappiness." 

"  I  am  not  unhappy,"  Monica  returned  rebelliously. 

"  If  you  say  that,"  was  the  calm  response,  "it  is 
because  you  are  unacquainted  with  happiness.  Your 
life  has  been  grounded  on  the  hypothesis  that  duty 
and  struggle  are  all.  You  have  sacrificed  your  heart 
to  your  head.  You  have  reasoned  out  your  way, 
you  have  never  been  guided  by  a  woman's  best  safe- 
guard— her  instinct.  A  woman,  before  all  else,  is  a 
creature  of  feeling.  You  have  not  given  your  emotions 
a  chance,  madame.  It  is  a  side  of  your  nature  that 
you  have  deliberately  starved.  But  it  is  less  your 
own  fault  than  that  of  circumstance.  You  have 
allowed  yourself  to  be  too  much  affected  by  some 
ancestral  handicap." 

"  Then  my  ancestry  has  been  a  handicap  ?  "  And, 
instinctively,  Monica  withdrew  her  hand,  which  the 


THE  TEST  353 

seeress  had  bade  her  place  on  the  table  where  the 
lamp  cast  its  revealing  light.  Madame  de  Kansa 
professed  not  to  remark  this — she  had  seen  all  she 
needed  to  see  in  the  lines  of  the  hand — and  Monica's 
action,  added  to  this  and  to  Madame  de  Kansa's 
general  knowledge  of  her,  had  told  all  the  rest. 

"  Yes,  but  not  in  the  way  you  imagine.  There  is 
no  more  latent,  immoral  impulse  in  your  nature  than 
in  that  of  any  other  healthy,  normal  individual.  In 
the  majority  of  cases  evil  action  is  the  result  of  strong 
temptation  and  the  passions  of  the  moment.  I  see 
nothing  in  your  hand  to  warrant  you  in  the  assumption 
of  hampering  inherited  predispositions.  No,  madame, 
the  handicap  I  speak  of  consists  in  the  way  you  have 
taken  yourself.  Forget  the  shadows  of  the  past, 
cultivate  tolerance,  that  sweeter  side  which  comes 
from  letting  the  heart  have  its  way,  be  what  you 
would  naturally  be  had  not  you  been  warped  by 
the  harshness  imposed  on  your  feelings  and  youth. 
That  is  my  counsel  to  you,  madame." 

Her  voice  was  kind,  and  she  put  out  her  hand  to  her 
visitor.  Monica,  who  had  risen,  took  it,  but  rather 
quickly  withdrew  her  own.  She  suspected  Madame 
de  Kansa  had  recognized  her.  It  offended  her  pride. 

Yet  Monica  could  not  tear  herself  away. 

"  If  you  don't  believe  in  heredity,"  she  said,  "  then 
you  don't  believe  in  fate.  And  what  becomes  of  your 
science?  " 

"  The  lines  in  our  palm  are  the  map  given  us  by 
God  to  gauge  our  characteristics  and  possibilities." 

AA 


354  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

And  Madame  de  Kansa  smiled  her  confident  profes- 
sional smile.  "  When  a  country's  geographical  con- 
formation changes,  wise  men  change  the  map;  when 
our  character  changes,  a  wise  God  changes  our  map 
for  us.  I  tell  you  that  there  are  in  your  life  no  evil 
influences  save  those  of  surroundings  and  imagination. 
I  tell  you  what  you  are  and  can  be.  If  you  choose  to 
make  yourself  different,  it  is  not  my  fault,  any  more 
than  that  of  your  ancestors." 

Convinced  now  that  the  seeress  knew  who  she  was, 
Monica  risked  forcing  an  issue. 

"  Suppose  I  had  an  ancestor  who  committed  a 
crime?  It  could  not  affect  me?  " 

"  Do  you  assume  yourself  as  born  before  or  after 
the  crime?  "  Madame  de  Kansa  demanded. 

"  Oh,  long,  long  after." 

"  Ah,  might  it  date  back  a  generation  or  two  ?  In 
that  case,  was  your  father  or  mother — or  whoever 
it  was — born  before  or  after  the  crime  ?  " 

"  Before,"  Monica  answered  impatiently,  won- 
dering why  she  lost  time  in  such  futile  word-play. 

"  Why,  then,  are  you  talking  of  heredity  ?  "  Madame 
de  Kansa  asked,  as  if  in  pity  for  such  ignorance.  "  The 
lesion  in  a  criminal's  brain  formed  after  he  has  com- 
mitted the  act  might  be  transmitted  to  his  offspring, 
conceived  subsequently.  As  to  children  born  before 
the  act,  they  cannot  be  affected  save  by  example 
and  propinquity,  as  adopted  children  or  neighbours' 
children  might  be — by  the  force  of  suggestion," 


THE  TEST  355 

"Suggestion?  " 

"  Certainly.  You  remember  the  story  of  the  haunted 
sentry-box  during  the  Franco-Prussian  War  ?  Camille 
Flammarion  was  the  first  to  explain  it  logically. 
There  was  no  reason  for  all  those  suicides  except  that 
one  soldier  happened  to  make  away  with  himself  for 
reasons  of  his  own,  and  his  comrades  were  fascinated 
by  the  morbid  associations  of  the  nail  on  which  he  had 
hanged  himself  in  the  lonely  silence  of  the  wintry 
night." 

"  But  .  .  .  what  connection  could  there  be  between 
suggestion  and  hands?  "  Monica  asked  after  a  pause. 

"  The  susceptibility  of  the  person  would  be  marked; 
and  the  effects  produced  by  suggestion  if  indulged  in. 
Both  of  these  markings  would  disappear  if  the  ten- 
dencies were  courageously  fought  and  conquered." 

"  Ah !     Even  after — after  a  crime  was  committed  ?  " 

"  Even  then,  yes,  there  would  be  a  change  notice- 
able. As  example  of  that,  I  keep  in  my  waiting-room 
two  casts  of  the  hand  of  a  noted  criminal  who  died 
almost  a  saint — the  Marquise  de  Brinvilliers."  Madame 
de  Kansa  saw  Monica's  surprise,  and  she  continued 
smoothly:  "You  did  not  know  that  her  repentance 
and  expiation  are  said  to  have  been  beautiful  ?  Why, 
when  she  was  publicly  burned  on  the  Place  de  Greve, 
and  her  ashes  were  scattered  to  the  winds,  bits  of  bone 
were  picked  up  by  the  populace  and  kept  as  relics 
because  of  her  saintliness  after  her  terrible  crimes !  I 
have  her  hands  when  she  was  arrested,  and  again  just 

AA2 


356  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

before  her  death.  The  differences  might  be  evident 
only  to  scientists;  to  us  they  are  full  of  eloquence." 

"  Which  did  I  see  ?  "  Monica  breathed  almost  in- 
audibly. 

"  I  hope  you  saw  both  if  you  saw  either — it  is  in  their 
contrast  that  they  have  their  eloquence,"  Madame  de 
Kansa  answered.  "  You  surely  did  not  think  it  part 
of  her  criminal  nature  to  be  afflicted  \\ith  two  right 
hands,  did  you?  Only  a  pupil  of  Lombroso  would 
think  that !  " 

"  I — I'm  afraid  I  did  not  notice  very  closely,"  said 
Monica. 

"  All  the  better  for  you.  That  is  part  of  the  intel- 
lectual commonsense  with  which  I  see  you  are  gifted. 
Palmistry  ought  to  be  studied  deeply  as  one  of  the 
most  important  as  well  as  most  complicated  of  sciences, 
or  else  left  entirely  alone.  Its  half-knowledge  is  a  real 
danger  by  leading  to  deductions  often  diametrically 
opposed  to  the  truth." 

As  Monica  hesitated,  Madame  de  Kansa  opened  the 
door  for  her  and  closed  it  quickly  behind  her.  She 
knew  that  the  seeds  she  had  sown  in  her  client's  mind 
would  bear  the  most  useful  fruit  if  allowed  to  germinate 
in  the  darkness  of  meditation.  She  rejoiced  that 
Monica  had  been  sufficiently  stirred  to  forget  the  pay- 
ment of  the  fee:  it  would  have  galled  her  to  take 
money  from  the  daughter  of  a  friend  and  benefactress, 
yet  she  knew  that  an  argument  would  disturb  the 
psychic  currents  which  she  had  exerted  so  much  effort 


THE  TEST  357 

to  create.  She  mused  that  if  Monica  forgot  the  fee, 
all  would  go  well.  And  Monica  must  have  forgotten, 
for  she  did  not  return. 


Monica  had  not  collected  herself  when  she  was  roused 
by  seeing  that  she  stood  in  the  waiting-room  and  was 
already  succeeded  by  another  client  in  Madame  de 
Kansa's  study.  There  were  further  questions  she 
would  have  liked  to  ask;  but  since  that  was  impos- 
sible, she  went  once  more  to  the  table  and  looked  at 
the  hands  of  the  Marquise  de  Brinvilliers.  Even 
attentive  examination  showed  but  few  differences, 
only  the  fact  that  there  should  be  differences,  and  that 
both  Julian  and  herself  had,  in  their  ignorance,  pre- 
sumed upon  cursory  glances,  filled  her  with  a  sort  of 
scorn  for  him  and  for  herself.  Only  it  was  the  scorn 
for  him  which  predominated;  after  all,  was  it  not  he 
who  had  "suggested"  her? 

She  started  to  walk  back  to  Elsie  Fitzgerald's  apart- 
ment in  the  Avenue  Victor  Hugo.  It  was  not  far,  but 
she  failed  to  count  on  physical  reaction  from  her  con- 
sultation with  Madame  de  Kansa.  It  had  taken  a  good 
deal  of  resolution  to  go,  and  she  felt  exhausted  now. 
As  she  passed  in  front  of  St.  Honore  d'Eylau  she  hesi- 
tated, then  went  in.  It  was  an  hour  when  the  church 
would  be  deserted,  and  she  wanted  a  place  in  which 
not  only  to  rest  but  to  think.  Seeking  a  quiet  corner, 
she  took  a  seat  and  closed  her  eyes  for  a  moment.  It 


358  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

was  not  in  prayer,  for  she  was  not  given  to  praying.  It 
was  merely  to  shut  out  objective  things  a  moment  for 
the  sheer  physical  relief  of  it.  She  had  the  strength  to 
face  life,  but  she  had  faced  it  so  long ! 

She  enjoyed  her  sense  of  refuge  from  external  things. 
There  was  something  curiously  grateful  just  then  in  the 
calm  surroundings,  which  gradually  began  to  com- 
municate its  spirit  and  left  her  able  to  formulate  her 
thoughts. 

First,  came  rebellion  against  Julian  and  all  that  their 
married  life  had  meant.  She  had  never  wanted  to 
marry  him ;  from  the  very  start  she  had  felt  too  keenly 
his  weakness  in  principles,  whatever  might  be  his 
strength  as  a  man.  His  facility  in  arranging  with  his 
conscience  the  fact  of  opening  that  letter  of  hers  when 
she  had  telegraphed  to  him  to  destroy  it,  ought  to  have 
given  her  sufficient  warning;  such  conduct  as  the 
equivocation  over  the  manuscript  was  a  mere  logical 
consequence. 

Tragically  strange,  that  coincidence  between  his 
fiction  in  The  Labyrinth  of  Life  and  the  fate  of  her  own 
poor  baby.  The  grimness  of  the  coincidence  had  horri- 
fied her  before;  it  was  only  now  that  the  prophetic 
quality  impressed  her.  How  had  Julian  known  that 
it  would  be  so?  She  hated  him  the  more  for  know- 
ing. Then  that  other  coincidence  between  her  hands 
and  those  of  the  Marquise  de  Brinvilliers — her  hands 
which  Julian  had  once  admired,  and  in  which  she  her- 
self had  taken  a  certain  pride,  for  they  were  always 
spoken  of  as  beautiful.  Julian  had  noted  that  resem- 


THE  TEST  359 

blance  before  she  had — though  details  of  saving  dif- 
ference had  escaped  him.  And  she  had  struggled  so 
hard,  so  hard,  against  all  that  heredity  might  mean — 
that  such  hands  might  mean — only  to  be  treated  as  a 
would-be  murderess ! 

A  fresh  thrill  of  terror  shot  through  her.  She  had 
grown  accustomed  to  the  thought  of  her  husband's 
infamy  in  suspecting  her ;  a  new  perspective  had  opened 
before  her  now.  Why  had  she  so  struggled  if  she  did 
not  believe  in  heredity — why  had  she  so  feared  the 
extravagant  tendencies  which  had  driven  Mrs.  Perdoe 
to  crime,  that  she  had  renounced  her  fortune  in  order 
to  conquer  her  own  vain  tendencies?  Was  it  indeed 
"  suggestion  " — or  was  it  that  she  believed  the  Perdoe 
blood  in  her  veins  would  contaminate  her?  She  re- 
called her  feelings  of  helpless  fury  as  she  read  Harding' s 
development  of  the  subject  in  The  Labyrinth  of  Life — 
the  memory  was  still  so  hideous  that  she  cowered  before 
it.  She  had  said  that  it  was  for  the  sake  of  others  she 
wanted  the  manuscript  destroyed.  Suppose  it  had, 
after  all,  been  for  herself?  Then  there,  again,  Julian 
would  have  been  right  in  accusing  her  of  sophistry. 

Resentment  against  him  was  now  the  dominant 
chord  in  her  nature.  Instead  of  living,  she  had  tried 
to  make  him  live,  and  he  had  only  been  playing  with 
her,  mocking  her,  the  while.  For  the  first  time,  she 
succeeded  in  conquering  the  pang  caused  her  by  the 
thought  of  her  baby.  For  the  first  time  she  really  felt 
what  she  had  said  in  her  burst  of  passion:  it  was  best 
little  Julian  had  died.  He  would  have  grown  up  not 


360  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

only  to  read  The  Labyrinth  of  Life,  but  to  know  his 
father. 

For  Monica  herself,  at  least,  there  remained  the 
chance  to  live  and  grow,  now  she  was  delivered  from 
Harding.  She  would  bury  the  past,  with  her  poor 
little  babe,  and  leave  aside  her  mourning  for  both, 
since  she  now  accepted  the  loss  of  the  child  and  asked 
but  to  forget  the  lost  husband.  She  would  listen  to 
Madame  de  Kansa,  would  experiment  to  see  if  she 
could  live  normally,  would  give  her  woman's  nature 
a  chance.  She  still  had  her  art;  and  then  there  were 
her  charities,  which  she  had  neglected  under  the  pre- 
occupations of  marriage  and  maternity.  After  all,  the 
philosophy  of  life  by  which  she  had  sought  to  govern 
herself,  had  been  puzzled  out  by  her  while  she  was  yet 
a  girl;  there  were  other  sides  to  study.  Perhaps  she 
even  began  to  suspect  how  many  people  talk  of  Pure 
Reason  but  spell  their  Kant  with  a  C. 

As  she  passed  out  of  the  church,  a  wretched-looking 
mendicant  asked  for  a  dole.  She  had  always  been  very 
tender  to  misery  and  suffering;  she  had  dreamed  of 
doing  something  worth  while  with  the  little  fortune 
which  was  to  have  been  hers.  She  now  felt  for  her 
purse.  As  she  did  so,  the  gleam  of  her  wedding-ring 
caught  her  eye.  What  worthier  purpose  could  this 
meaningless  emblem  serve  than  to  buy  bread?  She 
slipped  it  off  and  dropped  it  in  the  woman's  palm. 


36i 


CHAPTER  XIII 

Miss  VANDERHURST  was  crossing  in  the  Dover-Calais 
boat.  She  had  not  been  in  Paris  for  a  long  time,  that 
is,  long  for  her,  who  was  always  everywhere  in  that  con- 
stant shift  of  environment  which  had  become  her  mania. 
Paris  had,  indeed,  less  attraction  now  that  dear  Lena 
was  dead;  she  missed  her,  regretted  that  at  the  news 
of  her  sudden  end  she  had  been  confined  to  bed  with 
an  attack  of  grippe  and  had  been  unable  to  attend 
the  funeral.  She  had  written  to  both  Monica  and 
Harding  at  the  time,  and  since  corresponded  at  some- 
what long  intervals  with  the  latter;  but  his  letters  had 
not  been  satisfactory,  and  she  sometimes  speculated 
on  the  outcome  of  his  marriage  with  her  friend's 
daughter.  Their  removal  from  the  Neuilly  house,  fol- 
lowed by  the  Eversley  sale  at  the  Hotel  Drouot,  had 
caused  her  some  uneasy  speculation  as  to  the  amount 
of  prudence  Lena  had  shown  in  the  management  of  her 
affairs.  Yes,  she  feared  Lena  had  been  extravagant, 
and  she  was  sorry,  for  she  felt  herself  responsible  in  a 
way  for  Monica's  marriage  and  would  like  to  feel  that 
the  two  had  been  left  comfortably  off.  Lena's  letters 
during  the  latter's  stay  with  her  had  somewhat  relieved 
her  mind  as  to  the  compatibility  of  the  pair  .  .  .  they 
seemed  so  happy  and  devoted  to  each  other,  Lena  had 
constantly  assured  her.  Yet  the  experienced  spinster 


362  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

had  some  doubts  of  the  entire  accuracy  of  the  state- 
ment, and  one  of  her  reasons  for  going  to  Paris  was  to 
find  out  the  truth  for  herself.  She  had  written  of  her 
intended  visit  and  had  been  a  little  wounded  that  her 
letter  had  received  no  reply. 

She  was,  therefore,  not  sorry  to  discover  Percy 
Colston  among  her  fellow  passengers.  There  were 
many  things  she  had  to  overlook  in  deciding  to  make 
her  presence  known  to  him.  But  she  had  learned  to 
forgive  a  good  deal  in  people,  and  in  ignoring  reasons 
for  not  being  quite  gracious,  she  was  moved  to  learn 
from  him  something  about  the  Hardings.  The  poet 
seemed  oblivious  of  everybody,  as  he  leaned  against 
the  rail.  She  fancied  that  perhaps  he  was  a  little  sea- 
sick, although  it  chanced  that  for  once  the  Channel  was 
calm.  Percy  was  far  less  calm  than  the  Channel,  as 
she  immediately  learned  on  addressing  him.  He  was 
not  sea-sick,  but  soul-sick. 

"  Chicot  is  dead !  "  he  said  in  a  shrill  voice  of  tragedy, 
and  Miss  Vanderhurst  concernedly  offered  him  her 
salts,  as  his  tears  threatened  to  end  in  hysterics.  He 
had  received  a  cable  from  Buttercup  informing  him  of 
the  loss,  and  he  had  wildly  taken  the  first  boat  back  to 
Paris.  He  had  only  delayed  long  enough  to  change  the 
order  to  his  tailor  from  clothes  of  the  latest  Bond 
Street  hues  and  checks  to  a  complete  set  of  mourning 
attire.  He  informed  the  spinster  that  he  meant  to 
mourn  Chicot  as  he  never  would  have  mourned  Butter- 
cup, had  a  more  accommodating  Providence  snatched 
her  from  him  instead.  As  she  listened  to  this  denun- 


THE  TEST  363 

ciation  of  Hiram  Baxter's  daughter,  and  remembered 
her  flamboyant  attire  and  accent,  she  privately  re- 
joiced that  it  was  Percy,  for  whom  she  did  not  care, 
and  not  Julian  Harding,  for  whom  she  had  her  little 
sentiment,  who  had  committed  this  marital  identifica- 
tion with  the  tea-trade.  She  was  not  one  of  those 
spinsters  who  hail  a  teapot  as  though  it  were  an  angel 
from  heaven.  She  liked  riches  that  came,  as  her  own 
income  did,  from  real  estate  investment  made  a  hun- 
dred years  before.  She  liked  her  bonds  to  have  a 
dignified  background.  But  she  was  a  little  alarmed, 
and  quite  forgot  her  meditations  on  Surpassing  Ceylon, 
as  Percy,  who  was  anything  but  reticent  and  who  pre- 
ferred picturesque  fiction  to  uninteresting  truth, 
sketched  a  most  melodramatic  case  of  domestic  scandal 
in  which  Julian  Harding  out-Lotharioed  any  of  Byron's 
heroes.  The  light  in  which  Harding  figured  in  Percy's 
eyes  at  the  present  juncture,  as  the  boat  bore  the 
agitated  poet  and  the  spinster  towards  the  French 
shore,  did  credit  to  his  capacity  for  vengeance;  and  he 
was  not  only  avenging  himself,  he  was  avenging 
Chicot. 

Miss  Vanderhurst  duly  received,  like  most  of  Paris 
social  and  artistic  who  amounted  to  anything  in  the 
poet's  opinion,  one  of  the  huge  black-bordered  enve- 
lopes issued  from  the  Colstons'  stately  Avenue  du  Bois 
de  Boulogne  mansion.  The  recipients,  besides  being 
informed  of  Chicot's  demise,  were  requested  to  pray  for 
his  soul.  Those  who  believed  in  canine  souls  may  have 
breathed  a  prayer  or  two.  Miss  Vanderhurst  was  not 


364  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

one  of  these,  but  like  many  others  she  sent  a  floral 
offering.  She  did  not,  however,  accept  the  invitation 
to  the  funeral.  Afterwards,  she  half  wished  she  had. 
It  was  described  as  a  very  beautiful  affair,  although  it 
had  a  rather  disconcerting  termination.  The  spinster 
had  her  taste  for  unexpected  dramas — as  long  as  she 
was  not  concerned  in  them  herself. 

The  floral  tributes  were  really  very  numerous: 
Chicot  was  as  well  known  in  Paris  as  his  master,  whom 
he  accompanied  to  teas,  receptions  and  dinner  parties, 
and  anywhere  and  everywhere  his  master  went.  It  was 
the  modern  version  of  Mary  and  her  Lamb.  Most 
people  were  moved,  under  the  circumstances,  to  forgive 
the  poet  his  quarrels  with  them  and  the  little  songs 
they  inspired — and  they  were  particularly  unpleasant 
little  songs:  roses  that  smelt  sweet  in  a  way,  but  had  a 
bee's  sting  between  the  petals.  Fernet  stammered 
something  appropriate  when  he  met  Percy,  and 
Circour,  who  had  threatened  to  break  the  poet's  head 
as  he  in  artist  fury  had  broken  his  bust  of  Buttercup, 
promised  to  reproduce  Chicot  in  marble  for  the  next 
salon.  Mademoiselle  Dolores  Lagrange,  lately  re- 
turned from  lifting  the  veil  of  Isis  in  the  land  of  her 
former  incarnation,  sent  a  bunch  of  blue  lotus;  Percy 
had  told  her  that  he  didn't  wonder  she  slept  in  a 
mummy  case,  that  both  should  be  in  a  museum;  so  it 
was  sweet  of  the  Mystic  Dolores  to  forget  her  grievance. 
After  all,  time  had  only  just  begun  to  embalm  her. 

At  the  funeral,  Percy  in  his  black  clothes  looked  very 
poetical.  He  suggested  to  many  gathered  at  the  house 


THE  TEST  365 

the  beau  ideal  of  a  Hamlet.  He  stood  pointedly  apart 
from  Buttercup,  and  what  glances  were  not  directed  to 
where,  on  a  point-lace  pillow,  Chicot's  inanimate  body 
lay,  surrounded  with  flowers  and  lighted  tapers,  were 
witheringly  cast  at  that  lady,  who  did  not  at  all  profess 
to  share  her  husband's  grief.  She  was  dressed,  as  usual, 
in  colours,  and  Buttercup's  colours  were  never  subdued 
shades.  Some  thought  that  she  showed  extraordinary 
hard-heartedness,  but  they  were  not  aware  of  the 
vituperations  which  had  hardened  her,  more  than  she 
was  hardened  already,  since  Percy's  return.  Grief  had 
not  robbed  the  latter 's  tongue  of  its  talents,  and  But- 
tercup's replies  were  not  of  the  order  that  turn  away 
wrath.  The  only  peace,  in  truth,  that  the  house  had 
boasted  dwelt  in  the  great  gilded  salon  where  Chicot 
was  stretched  on  his  bier. 

It  was  in  the  midst  of  the  funeral  pomps.  The 
Armenian  actor,  who  had  once  been  a  protege  of  Mrs. 
Eversley's  and  had  several  times  held  her  hand,  was 
reading  a  long  elegiac  poem  he  had  composed  in 
Chicot's  honour.  Its  description  of  his  pet's  touching 
ways  was  causing  Percy's  tears  to  flow  again,  when  a 
loud  voice — particularly  harsh  in  its  competition  with 
the  actor's  mellifluence — was  heard  outside.  Both 
Percy  and  Buttercup  knew  that  voice,  and  their  eyes 
met.  In  Buttercup's  was  anxiety,  in  Percy's  terror. 
The  servant  at  the  door  had  probably  his  instinct,  but 
he  was  powerless,  it  appeared,  to  check  the  entry  of 
the  new  arrivals.  There  was  a  general  stir  as  the  pair 
made  their  way  into  the  circle.  It  was,  of  course,  Miss 


366  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

Zenobia  and  Hiram.  Everybody  had  met  Miss  Zenobia ; 
she  advanced  with  her  sunbursts  and  her  love  string. 
it  was  evident  there  was  more  love  on  that  string, 
which  had  grown  like  the  lady's  waist,  than  in  the 
glance  she  cast  at  the  trembling  Percy.  And  as  for 
her  companion,  who  could  doubt  it  was  Hiram?  His 
sideburns,  so  oft  described  by  the  poet  in  appreciative 
drawing-rooms,  gave  him  away. 

The  pair  were  not  looked  for,  that  was  clear.  Their 
appearance  had  all  the  unexpectedness  of  the  Ancient 
Mariner  at  the  wedding  feast.  If  Miss  Zenobia's  gems 
glittered,  so  did  Hiram's  eyes.  In  that  respect  he 
filled  the  role  of  the  Ancient  Mariner  quite  as  well  as 
the  Armenian  actor  would  have  done.  He  advanced 
with  a  free  step,  taking  in,  in  one  contemptuous  survey, 
Chicot,  the  lighted  candles,  the  heaping  flowers. 

Buttercup  advanced  to  embrace  her  relatives.  She 
was  proud  of  her  father,  and  did  not  at  all  question  his 
sideburns,  but  she  sometimes  deprecated  his  abrupt 
ways  and  would  have  greatly  preferred  if  he  had  arrived 
at  a  less  inopportune  moment.  Funerals  were  after 
all  funerals,  even  if  they  were  only  canine  obsequies, 
and  there  were  many  fashionable  mourners  in  the 
salon.  She  understood  what  had  brought  Hiram;  it 
was  her  recent  letters  of  complaint.  But  she  made  the 
most  of  it  all  and  preserved  her  best  duchess  manner  of 
greeting. 

"  Just  wait  until  they  leave  the  house,"  she  whis- 
pered into  his  large  commercial  ear.  "  The  procession 
will  soon  start  up." 


THE  TEST  367 

"  Yes,  I  reckon  it  will,"  he  said  grimly.  "  It's  going 
to  start  up  right  away  now." 

The  Armenian  actor  had  acquiesced  already  to  that 
decision.  He  had  deposited  his  manuscript  in  his  breast 
pocket.  It  was  a  signal  for  the  undertaker  and  his 
mutes  to  lay  hands  on  the  coffin,  which  they  bore  forth- 
with out  of  the  salon  and  on  to  the  waiting  hearse. 
The  others  followed — perhaps  a  little  more  hastily  than 
was  in  keeping  with  such  ceremonies.  Buttercup  still 
smiled  bravely,  as  she  remained  by  her  relative's  side. 
Miss  Zenobia  had  indulged  in  one  audible  contemptuous 
sniff  at  the  sight  of  these  unseemly  mock-Christian 
ceremonies.  She  considered  that  Hiram  had  shown  a 
magnificent  command  of  his  righteous  indignation. 
Percy  was  the  last  to  fall  into  the  procession.  Only 
the  sight  of  his  dog  being  borne  away  to  the  final 
resting-place  seemed  to  inspire  his  muscles  with  life. 

As  he  passed  Hiram,  the  latter  laid  a  hand  on  his 
coat  collar.  Percy  shrank  a  little,  but  his  dignity  did 
not  wholly  desert  him.  "  Respect  the  sacredness  of 
grief  if  you  can  respect  nothing  else !  "  he  exclaimed. 

Hiram  released  his  hold. 

"  Well,  I  guess  the  best  thing  you  can  do  is  to  follow 
your  dog,"  he  snarled.  "  If  he  hasn't  a  soul  to  be 
damned  to  hell,  you  have,  anyway." 

Paris  learned  only  much  later  of  the  dreadful  inci- 
dents which  occurred  when  Percy  returned  to  what 
had  been  his  gilded  home.  The  truth  came  out  in  the 
Baxter-Colston  divorce  suit  and  the  quarrel  over  settle- 
ments— the  greatest  quarrel  the  poet  had  ever  had 


368  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

among  his  myriads.  But  Percy  was  not  inspired  to 
make  a  little  song  out  of  it,  for  he  lost  his  case.  The 
French  have  some  peculiar  views  in  regard  to  women, 
but  they  will  not  admit  the  principle  of  wife-beating, 
and  it  being  established  that  Percy  knocked  his  wife 
down  and  broke  her  arm,  the  plea  of  insane  grief  over 
the  death  of  his  dog  merely  made  the  Court  smile,  and 
Mr.  Hiram  Baxter  was  judged  leniently  for  wiping  up 
the  floors  with  Percy  better  than  they  had  ever  been 
wiped  by  the  highly-paid  servants.  Buttercup  got  her 
divorce,  and  Hiram  escaped  the  payment  of  alimony; 
he  had  made  wise  inquiries,  and  had  chosen  for  the  case 
a  tribunal  and  a  judge  notorious  for  gallantry  in  never 
refusing  favourable  verdicts  to  women — providing  they 
were  very  wealthy  Americans. 

Sheer  sentiment,  and  the  longing  for  a  sympathetic 
artist-soul,  led  Percy  to  mend  his  breach  with  Circour, 
whose  "  Sleeping  Chicot "  for  the  tomb  at  the  Dog  Ceme- 
tery became  one  of  the  attractions  of  the  place.  But 
what  struck  most  was  Percy's  legend: 

"  The  more  I  see  of  she-cats, 
The  more  I  love  my  he-dog." 

Miss  Vanderhurst,  passing  there,  recognized  the  cor- 
rected Pascal,  and  reflected  that  while  Percy  had  been 
worsted  by  Hiram  he  possessed  a  woman's  talent  for  the 
last  word.  "  But,  then,"  she  added,  "  Percy  always 
had  a  woman's  tongue." 


369 


CHAPTER  XIV 

TOWARDS  the  end  of  August  Nicolls  was  motoring 
through  Chartres  to  attend  an  international  speed  trial 
on  one  of  the  magnificent  roads  in  the  neighbourhood. 
He  had  timed  his  arrival  in  the  old  Cathedral  town  so 
that  his  machine  might  cool  off  and  be  put  in  perfect  trim 
before  the  trial  began,  and  meanwhile  he  had  planned 
to  see  once  more  certain  details  of  the  town's  architec- 
ture, outside  of  the  Cathedral,  which  he  already  knew 
thoroughly.  Entering  the  Church  of  St.  Pierre,  he 
came  presently  before  the  wonderful  enamels  of 
Limousin,  and  was  surprised  to  recognize  Monica  in  a 
lady  he  had  noticed  at  work  there.  His  surprise  was, 
indeed,  twofold;  first,  because  he  had  no  reason  what- 
ever to  expect  her  there,  and  then,  because  she,  who  had 
formerly  affected  such  sober  hues,  was  now  clad  in  a 
dress  whose  glowing  harmonies  of  colour  vied  with  those 
of  the  enamels. 

"  Mrs.  Harding !  I  had  no  idea  you  were  at  Char- 
tres," he  exclaimed.  "  I  was  thinking  of  you  only 
yesterday  morning." 

"  If  you  thought  of  me  here  before  the  afternoon,  you 
were  very  much  out,"  she  returned  with  a  lightness 
which  gave  him  a  third  cause  for  surprise,  though 
her  dress  ought  to  have  prepared  him.  For  the  first 
time  since  he  had  been  told  her  story,  he  thought  of 

BB 


370  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

her  not  as  Mrs.  Perdoe's  granddaughter,  but  as  Mrs. 
Eversley's  daughter. 

He  did  not  know  quite  how  to  continue  their  talk,  as 
Monica  paused. 

"You  are  copying  these?"  he  ventured.  "In- 
teresting work — but  it  must  be  taxing.  You  look  a 
little  tired." 

"  Tired  from  heat  coming  in  the  train,  then,"  she 
laughed.  "  I  came  from  Paris  yesterday  to  make 
some  fresh  comparisons  about  the  colours.  I  told  you 
of  this  order  from  the  Arundel  Society — yes,  it  was  long 
ago,  and  it  ought  to  have  been  done;  but  I  wasn't 
altogether  pleased  with  some  of  the  tones  I  got,  and  I 
did  two  of  the  plates  completely  over." 

"  Though  not  an  artist  myself,  I  always  admire 
artistic  conscientiousness,"  Nicolls  remarked.  He  saw 
her  send  him  a  startled  look,  and  knew  that  she  sus- 
pected an  allusion  to  Harding  and  the  manuscripts. 
He  added  hastily:  "  My  motor's  just  round  the  corner. 
A  little  air  would  do  you  good.  I  am  sure  you  have 
worked  enough  for  to-day.  Let  me  take  your  things." 

"  I  should  prefer  walking  to  motoring,  if  you  don't 
mind.  I  have  been  sketching  the  cathedral  from  that 
pretty  point  over  there,  as  a  relief  from  the  two  much 
Apostles.  I  like  being  out-of-doors,  and  it  isn't  un- 
pleasant to-day."  She  spoke  a  little  hurriedly,  and 
with  apparent  desire  to  keep  the  conversation  imper- 
sonal. He  understood  that  her  refusal  to  enter  the 
motor  was  due  to  some  delicacy  of  feeling. 

He  took  her  sketching  kit,  and  walked  by  her  side. 


THE  TEST  371 

"  I  went  to  see  Miss  Fitzgerald,"  he  said,  breaking 
the  silence,  "  after  going  to  your  apartment  and  finding 
you  had  left.  I  knew  she  would  probably  have  your 
address,  but  she  refused  to  give  it  to  me.  She  said  it 
was  your  wish.  Was  that  quite  friendly  ?  " 

"  It  did  not  seem  so,  I  admit.  But  I  did  not  mean 
it  for  unkindness.  I  had  my  reasons." 

"  Yes,  I  understand  that,"  he  answered.  "  Your 
husband  has  been  with  me  this  summer  out  at  St. 
Germain." 

"  He  is  with  you  ?  "     And  her  voice  faltered  a  little. 

'  Yes,  he  is  much  better — in  fact,  almost  himself 
again.  I  am  glad  of  this  chance  meeting,"  he  went 
on,  "  for  it  gives  me  the  opportunity  I  have  long  wanted 
to  talk  to  you.  It  is  about  Julian,  as  I  needn't  say. 
I  know  you  will  forgive  me  the  liberty  I  take  as  an  old 
fiiend.  Besides,  we  have  always  understood  each 
other  so  well,  and  that  gives  me  confidence  in  touching 
on  a  delicate  matter.  You  will  not  be  offended  ?  " 

"  You  cannot  offend  me  by  speaking  of  Julian,"  she 
answered. 

"  Naturally,  he  has  suffered  from  what  happened," 
Nicolls  resumed.  "  But  his  nature  has  revenged  itself 
in  a  consuming  passion  for  work.  I  had  trouble  in 
forcing  him  to  rest,  even  for  a  few  days,  to  recover  his 
balance  after  the  shock  of  his  adventure  with  the 
salamander  and  then  the  grief  of  finding  you  had  left 
him.  Of  course,  he  wasn't  responsible  for  anything 
he  said  that  night ;  he  looks  back  on  it  now  as  a  sort  of 
blurred  nightmare,  and  I  know  that  you  are  too  sensible 

BB2 


372  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

to  have  taken  him  very  seriously  even  if  he  was  grossly 
unjust.  Circumstances  had  been  leading  up  to  a  climax 
between  you,  and  when  the  moment  came  anything 
sufficed.  You  forgive  my  frankness  as  a  very  old 
friend,  don't  you?  " 

His  casual  tone  made  it  comparatively  easy  for  her 
to  answer: 

"  There  was  no  other  solution — we  had  to  part.  You 
see,  the  one  mistake  nothing  would  mend  was  our 
marriage."  She  turned  her  eyes  towards  a  sunny 
stretch  of  landscape  which  appeared  in  a  gap  between 
the  wal's  of  two  old  houses. 

He  reverted  quickly  to  the  theme  of  Harding' s  work. 

"  First  of  all,  you  must  know  that  he  sent  The 
Labyrinth  of  Life  to  another  publisher  and  got  it  enthu- 
siastically accepted.  Now  he's  got  enthusiastic  himself, 
has  revised  it  carefully,  has  learned  to  know  his  charac- 
ters better,  has  cut  out  some  of  his  treatises  to  serve 
later  as  pamphlets  on  medicine  or  metaphysics  or  he 
isn't  quite  sure  what,  and  he  has  discovered  that  the 
circumstances  seemed  inevitably  tragic  only  because 
he  as  their  unkind  godfather  wanted  to  make  them  so. 
Disquisitions  on  heredity  have  fallen  to  insignificance 
when  actually  forced  down  into  the  ring  and  made 
to  fight  with  human  passions." 

Slowly  and  deliberately,  she  pressed  her  under-lip 
against  the  edge  of  her  upper  teeth  and  drew  it  down 
again — a  characteristic  action  when  she  was  displeased. 
Nicolls  went  on : 

"  Then  he  has  finished  his  new  story,  too — the  one 


THE  TEST  373 

he  wrote  for  you.  He  sent  that  to  Bentley,  who  now 
threatens  to  sue  either  him  or  the  publisher  of  The 
Labyrinth  of  Life  if  the  latter  appears  within  six  months 
of  the  Bentley  book.  That  incident  has  done  Harding 
a  world  of  good — to  have  publishers  actually  squab- 
bling over  him,  as  he  calls  it ;  and  he's  so  annoyed  with 
Bentley  that  he  is  delighted  at  the  prospect  of  setting 
the  two  firms  by  the  ears." 

She  spoke  at  last,  dryly : 

"So  you  have  been  able  to  do  for  him  what  I  never 
could?" 

"  It  was  not  I;  it  was  events,"  Nicolls  answered. 
"  I  did  nothing  beyond  persuading  him  to  go  out  to  the 
country  where  he  could  work  quietly." 

"  I  asked  him  to  rest,  but  he  refused  to  listen  to  me." 

"  Yes,  but  you  expected  him  to  be  dependent  on  you 
the  while." 

"  As  though  that  made  any  difference !  " 

"  As  if  it  could  help  making  a  difference !  " 

Monica  turned  her  face  from  him : 

"  It  was  I  myself  who  made  the  difference.  My  very 
presence  seemed  to  irritate  him ;  so  whatever  I  did  was 
bound  to  vex  him.  The  more  I  tried,  the  worse  it  got, 
until  I  seemed  to  be  merciful  to  him  in  going.  And 
now  you — and  everybody — will  think  I  deserted  him  in 
his  need." 

"  You  need  not  regret  that,  or  anything,  Mrs. 
Harding,"  Nicolls  said  intensely.  "  It  was  all  for  the 
best,  believe  me." 

"For  the  best?     My  leaving  him?"     She  spoke 


374  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

• 

with  the  quick  resentment  which  showed  Nicolls  how 
dangerous  it  was  to  take  a  woman  for  granted,  even 
when  you  have  her  own  latest  words  as  basis. 

"  I  only  mean  that  it  did  him  no  harm  to  help  him- 
self," he  said.  "  Perhaps  it  was  too  much  for  him,  at 
one  time,  to  try  to  help  himself  and  you ;  but  it  was  not 
enough  for  his  energies  to  feel  no  responsibilities  what- 
ever." 

"  All  he  had  to  do  was  to  continue  being  responsible 
for  himself  alone,  as  he  was  when  he  insisted  on  my 
marrying  him,"  Monica  breathed  sombrely.  "  For  he 
did  insist;  I  refused  him;  I  did  everything  I  could  to 
discourage  him,  even  on  the  very  night  I  was  finally 
weak  enough  to  yield — when  he  represented  how  badly 
he  needed  my  help.  I  liked  to  help  people.  I  like 
helping  Elsie  Fitzgerald  now  that  she  finds  Paris  is  not 
an  artistic  place  since  sheer  merit  cannot  work  its  way 
up  to  starring  after  one  has  accepted  subordinate  parts 
at  the  Opera  Comique.  I  have  new  views  of  life,  from 
the  simple  fact  that  I  am  useful  to  some  one,  though  a 
stranger,  after  failing  with  my  mother  and  my  husband 
— and  perhaps  with  myself.  Yes,  I  don't  mind  acknow- 
ledging it,  I've  had  some  months  to  grow  accustomed 
to  the  changed  order  of  things;  I  have  given  up  strug- 
gling over  myself,  I  am  content  to  live,  to  be.  I  realize 
it's  all  for  the  best,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  and  if  you 
can  say  so  too,  then — Julian — must  agree  to  it." 

He  understood  now  what  had  struck  him  super- 
ficially in  the  beginning.  Her  dress  was  of  brilliant 
blue  linen,  with  a  red  rose  pinned  to  her  breast ;  a  bunch 


THE  TEST  375 

of  roses  was  in  her  white  tulle  hat ;  a  long  grey  coat  with 
large  pearl  buttons  concealed  her  toilet  only  enough  to 
make  it  attractive.  Anyone  knowing  her  less  well 
would  have  been  puzzled  by  this  display;  Nicolls  saw 
in  it  an  almost  pathetic  effort  to  shake  off  the  shadows 
of  her  past  life  and  thought — to  live,  to  be,  as  she 
expressed  it.  Her  irresponsible  mother,  her  misunder- 
standing husband,  had  been  associated  with  sternness 
in  her  dress  and  ways;  and  now  for  the  first  time  she 
was  giving  free  wings  to  her  soul — perhaps  believed  at 
last  that  she  had  a  soul,  careless  as  she  had  always  been 
about  religious  matters.  Doubtless  no  other  means  had 
come  to  her  for  forgetting  her  baby,  and  that  was  a  pain 
which  only  forgetfuhiess  could  assuage.  But  however 
that  might  be,  it  was  evident  that  she  need  not  forget 
Harding,  to  cease  caring  for  him.  Nicolls  felt  he  had 
done  what  he  could  for  his  friend;  only  the  thought  of 
his  own  lost  loves  dwelt  with  him.  Lost,  of  course, 
eternally  buried.  But  how  delightful  was  this  new, 
quick,  direct,  resurrected  Monica ! 

"  Don't  forget  how  much  you  have  helped  me," 
Nicolls  said,  dwelling  on  her  allusion  to  Elsie  Fitz- 
gerald. "  Remember  you  said  you  were  sure  I  was 
able  to  do  without  you.  I  wasn't  at  all  sure;  but  I 
tried,  because  you  made  me.  And  if  I  succeeded,  it 
was  because  I  remembered  your  confidence  in  me. 
Consciously  or  unconsciously,  you  had  appealed  to  my 
pride,  and  that's  an  important  stepping-stone  to  suc- 
cess. But  I  don't  deny  it  was  hard—don't  deny  it  may 
even  seem  hard  sometimes  now." 


376  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

They  had  reached  the  open  country.  Broad  flat 
fields  stretched  away  as  far  as  the  eye  could  see  beneath 
the  shimmering  sun;  the  silence  was  broken  by  the 
hideous  croak  of  distant  automobile  horns,  but  Nicolls 
had  forgotten  all  about  his  speed  trials. 

Her  features  had  softened,  and  he  noticed  that  she 
walked  with  a  grace  which  the  olden  Monica  would  have 
feared  to  permit  herself. 

"  Consciously  or  unconsciously,  you  are  now  flatter- 
ing my  pride,  since  I've  told  you  I  love  to  help,"  she 
said,  with  an  easy  self-mastery  which  was  a  further 
revelation  to  him.  "  These  helpful  people  are  awful 
bores  without  knowing  it,  aren't  they  ?  And  they  so 
often  do  the  exact  contrary  of  what  they  mean  to  do. 
The  only  thing,  I've  come  to  believe,  is  being  careful 
as  one  goes  along,  to  do  the  best  one  can,  and  then  let 
consequences  go;  if  the  causes  are  all  right,  the  chances 
are  the  consequences  will  be  fairly  safe.  There!  I'm 
at  it!  I'd  vowed  to  myself  that  I'd  stop  preaching! 
It's  funny  how  we  can't  change  our  characters,  isn't 
it  ?  "  And  she  laughed  with  a  tinge  of  sadness,  yet  with 
real  spontaneity. 

"  Your  character  was  never  what  you  pretended  it 
to  be,"  Nicolls  said.  He  did  not  suspect  that  he  put 
passion  in  his  tone,  and  perhaps  she  was  not  entirely 
aware  of  it  either,  but  her  cheek  flushed  slightly.  Nicolls 
went  on:  "  You  grafted  on  ways  and  ideas  which  never 
belonged  to  you,  which  never  did  justice  to  you,  which 
never  allowed  anybody  to  understand  you  except — 


THE  TEST  377 

except — well,  I  can't  help  saying  it — except  myself.  I 
understand  you,  Monica." 

"  I  believe  you  do,"  she  returned,  looking  away  from 
him  again. 

The  sun  suddenly  grew  intensely  hot.  The  fields 
seemed  to  sway  and  rise  up.  Breath  seemed  to  leave 
him:  night  seemed  to  come  after  the  dazzling  light. 
But  Monica  stood  out  clearly  and  magnificently  amid 
his  bewilderment. 

"  Monica !  Monica !  "  he  cried. 

The  change  that  swept  her  face  recalled  him  to  his 
senses.  She  thrilled  at  the  sound  of  her  name;  then 
she  grew  cold  and  stern  as  he  had  never  known  her  in 
her  most  forbidding  moments. 

"  My  walk  is  straight  along  that  white  road  to  the 
right,"  she  said.  "  The  one  we  can't  see  the  end  of, 
because  it  is  so  smooth  and  straight  and  open  that  it 
sweeps  on  to  the  horizon.  It's  a  long  walk,  and  a  tiring 
one,  but  I  know  precisely  where  I  am  going,  and  I  need 
no  guide.  Yours  lies  through  that  lane  with  the 
hedges,  doesn't  it  ?  And  friends  and  motors  and  all 
sorts  of  unexpected  developments  are  ahead  of  you 
where  I  should  only  be  in  the  way.  Don't  argue  the 
point:  these  are  the  cross-roads." 


378 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  Chatelet  Theatre  was  filled  with  music-lovers  for 
the  first  Colonne  concert  of  the  autumn  season.  A 
number  of  no  particular  appeal  had  been  played; 
Richard  Strauss's  "  Death  and  Transfiguration  "  now 
came  next  on  the  programme,  and  the  German  com- 
poser's orchestral  work  was  still  sufficiently  new  in 
Paris  to  excite  considerable  curiosity. 

On  the  silence  of  the  theatre  fell  the  opening  bars 
of  "  Tod  und  Verklarung."  Harding,  who  had  come 
especially  to  hear  this,  abandoned  himself  to  the  extra- 
ordinarily moving  effects  of  the  Strauss  poem,  with  its 
architectural,  symbolic  grandeurs,  its  bold,  fresh 
beauties  of  realistic  description,  its  lofty  human  lesson. 
He  thought  this  the  most  soul-searching  of  all  Strauss's 
tone-pieces  he  had  heard,  some  of  which  he  knew  in  his 
New  York  days.  Under  the  influence  of  its  panoramic 
art  he  lived  over  his  life,  from  childhood's  prologue  to 
the  complex  drama  of  manhood.  Anon,  came  the 
strident  "  Halt !  "  of  discordant  brasses,  as  they  voiced 
some  fresh  defeat  of  human  striving.  Yet,  in  answer 
to  the  weariness  of  life,  marched  the  triumphant  chords 
of  spiritual  vision,  transforming  defeat  into  victory. 
And  at  last,  the  climax-music  of  divine,  melting 
sweetness:  mortality  transfigured,  lifted  beyond  the 
wound  of  failure,  the  jeer  of  death. 


THE  TEST  379 

Such  music  was,  Harding  felt,  what  he  most  needed 
at  the  moment.  It  imposed,  by  its  power  of  genius, 
the  larger  idea  of  living  which  had  taken  form  in  him 
since  the  mellowness  of  real  success  had  come  to 
obliterate  the  harshness  of  early  struggles  and  of  prema- 
ture success,  and  also  since  a  real  soul-tragedy  had 
come  to  him  after  the  many  which  would  doubtless 
have  appeared  mere  casual  incidents  but  for  his  artistic 
sensitiveness  and  conscientiousness.  He  could  at  least 
now  tell  himself  that  he  had  worked  and  won ;  it  was  in 
living  that  he  had  to  acknowledge  he  had  lost.  But  in 
his  depression  over  the  latter  thought  he  noted  that 
the  sustaining  emotion  of  the  piece  might  wane,  just 
as  his  spiritual  prospects  might  cloud  under  stress  of 
stiuggle;  yet  the  piece  showed,  and  he  began  to  feel 
intensely  that,  after  all,  the  struggle  was  worth  while. 

The  last  chord  of  the  symphony  ended  in  a  wild 
burst  of  applause.  With  a  movement  of  relief  from 
the  strain  of  the  senses  through  which  he  had  passed, 
Harding  threw  back  his  head.  His  eyes  chanced  to  fall 
on  the  first  balcony.  There,  with  an  arrested  heart- 
beat, he  saw  his  wife.  She  sat  on  the  front  row,  with 
Elsie  Fitzgerald;  unaware  of  his  presence,  they  leaned 
forward,  their  attention  directed  to  the  stage  where  the 
conductor  was  bowing  acknowledgments  to  the  tribute 
paid  him. 

This  unexpected  sight  of  Monica,  at  such  a  moment, 
was  to  Harding  like  the  vision  come  to  Dante,  emerged 
from  Purgatory  shadow,  of  Beatrice  in  bright  celestial 
vesture.  It  was  almost  like  a  miracle  wrought  by  the 


3&>  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

music,  to  set  a  final  seal  of  meaning  on  the  courageous 
counsels  of  its  harmonies.  Why  accept  the  permanent 
separation  she  had  imposed  upon  him  by  a  brief  note 
when  he  had  written  begging  her  forgiveness  for  the 
terrible  accusation  he  had  brought  against  her?  But, 
graver  than  acts,  their  natures  came  between  them. 
As  Monica  appeared  there  above  him,  Harding  reflected 
that  the  physical  difference  between  them  symbolized 
their  spiritual  separation.  He  was  still  so  far  below 
her,  with  only  the  wish  to  rise !  He  had  scarcely  left 
hell,  she  had  always  dwelt  in  her  heights ;  and  it  seemed 
to  him,  as  he  mused,  that  her  very  weaknesses,  which 
had  at  times  bridged  the  distance,  were  borrowed  only 
for  the  purpose  of  meeting  him. 

He  was  tempted  to  go  to  her,  but  restrained  the 
impulse.  What  right  had  he  to  force  an  encounter 
which  could  only  be  painful  to  her  ?  She  had  put  him 
out  of  her  heart  as  a  sealed  past.  It  was  he  who  could 
not  forget.  The  stinging  sense  of  what  he  had  lost  had 
rendered  him  incapable  of  joy.  He  had  perhaps  not 
analysed  before  this  feeling  of  incompleteness;  not 
analysed  it  correctly,  at  all  events ;  he  had  mistaken  it 
for  weariness  of  life.  He  understood  better,  now  that 
his  sole  right  consisted  in  viewing  her  from  afar. 

He  continued  to  gaze  at  her,  heedless  of  the  "  Spring  " 
by  a  Russian  composer  which  the  orchestra  had  started 
to  play.  What  were  her  thoughts?  Had  she,  too 
been  moved  by  the  Strauss  piece,  guessed  its  personal 
significance?  Had  she  compared  this  hero  with  the 
man  she  had  married,  the  man  whom  she  had  never 


THE  TEST  381 

known  to  struggle?  He  had  not  seen  her  for  eight 
months:  her  face  bore  the  mark  of  a  new  and  deeper 
sadness.  And  yet,  her  dress  was  almost  frivolous,  com- 
pared with  what  he  had  known  her  to  wear.  Monica 
in  a  clinging  dress  of  golden  brown  that  really  did  justice 
to  her  splendid  form — Monica  ripe  for  life  and  for  love ! 
If  a  man  had  been  with  her  Harding  would  have  hated 
him  jealously;  but  she  was  only  with  poor  Elsie  Fitz- 
gerald, who  had  lost  her  voice,  and,  unfitted  by  operatic 
experience  for  other  interests  in  life,  was  now  dragging 
her  discouraged  spirit  from  theatre  to  concert  and  from 
concert  to  theatre,  trying  with  Monica's  help  to  get 
interested  in  something.  Did  Monica  regret  the  sacri- 
fice she  had  made  in  marrying  unhappily  ?  Or  was  it 
some  later  personal  preoccupation?  Though  there 
might  be  no  apparent  grounds  for  jealousy,  Harding 
clasped  his  hands  together  in  a  despairing  pressure  as 
he  thought  of  the  woman  who  had  loved  him  and  whose 
love  he  had  so  wantonly  killed. 

The  concert  was  over.  He  had  heard  nothing  since 
the  first  measures  of  the  Spring  piece.  He  got  up,  so 
indifferent  to  time  and  effort  that  he  was  caught  in  the 
crowd  and  took  long  to  reach  the  street.  At  the  door, 
he  found  that  chance  had  put  him  beside  his  wife. 
Their  eyes  met.  Her  hand  rose  with  an  impulsive 
movement :  he  knew  that  she  had  not  seen  him  before, 
and  had  been  taken  off  her  guard.  And  he  knew,  too, 
that  she  cared. 

He  never  could  remember,  afterwards,  and  never 
dared  ask  her,  what  it  was  he  said  that  overcame  her 


382  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

quick  reaction.  He  saw  her  draw  back,  as  if  fright- 
ened more  by  herself  than  by  him;  then  saw  her  yield 
with  an  air  of  helplessness.  Another  moment  passed 
in  silence;  then  they  were  walking  across  to  the  little 
square  of  the  Tour  St.  Jacques,  in  unexpressed  need  of 
fleeing  the  crowd. 

They  took  seats  on  a  bench  under  the  shadow  of  the 
old  Gothic  ruin.  Harding  could  not  speak,  now.  He 
felt  that  he  must,  yet  feared  that  one  wrong  word  might 
be  fatal.  It  was  Monica  who  began,  very  slowly,  but 
with  little  of  her  old  precision : 

"  I  suppose  you  have  seen  Miss  Vanderhurst  ?  "  She 
waited  for  him  to  nod,  and  then  went  on:  "  So  have  I. 
She  represented  to  me  that  I  ought  to  see  you  at  least 
once  more.  She  holds  herself  responsible  for — much 
that  happened,  which  is  absurd;  and  said  we  owed 
something  to  her  in  at  least  meeting  once.  I  am  not 
sorry  for  this  accident.  I — I  believe  I  was  cowardly 
about  seeing  you."  The  admission  came  with  the  air 
of  having  been  made  merely  because  it  was  so  painful. 
"  I  was  afraid  you  might  try  to  argue  and  prove  me 
wrong  in  wishing  to  live  alone.  Miss  Vanderhurst  told 
me  this  showed  I  knew  I  was  wrong.  But  I  don't 
believe  you  will  say  so.  You  must  have  understood, 
since  you  were  kind  to  me — kind,  I  mean,  by  not 
writing  again,  not  trying  to  see  me  when  you  knew  how 
I  felt.  That  is  why  I  am  glad  we  have  met.  I  can 
thank  you  for  understanding.  Our  respective  futures 
will  be  happier  so." 

"  Monica,  why  should  we  try  to  understand  each 


THE  TEST  383 

other  ?  Does  anybody  ever  understand  anybody  else  ?  " 
He  saw  displeasure  come  to  her  eyes,  and  he  hastened 
to  make  his  meaning  clear:  "  We  both  tried  so  hard  to 
make  each  other  understand.  We  knew  too  little  of 
life  to  realize  that  it  was  enough  to  love  each  other !  " 

She  stirred  uneasily,  as  if  about  to  rise. 

"  Let  everything  go,  except  the  one  fact  that  we 
never  loved  as  we  might  have  loved,  and  that  we  do 
now!  "  he  pleaded  passionately.  "  You  were  right  to 
leave  me,  because  I  was  not  fit  for  you;  I  trampled  out 
all  that  was  sacred  in  you;  I  was  to  blame  for  all  that 
happened.  But  you  are  too  just  to  refuse  me  the 
chance  to  make  atonement — and  without  you  I  can't 
atone." 

"  You  never  needed  me;  why  should  you  need  me 
now  ?  "  It  was  the  echo  of  her  old  cry. 

"  I  always  needed  you  too  much  for  our  good.  I 
used  your  strength  instead  of  my  own.  It  is  only  now 
that  I  find  myself  what  I  ought  to  have  been  before  I 
married  you.  And  now  you  can  help  me — by  letting 
me  help  you." 

She  bowed  her  head  and  kept  silence. 

"  Monica,  you  know  you  need  me !  "  he  said  softly  and 
earnestly,  drawing  closer  and  taking  her  hand.  She 
did  not  resist;  indeed,  the  throbbing  of  her  pulse 
showed  him  that  he  had  spoken  truer  than  he  thought. 

"  You  say  this  now,  yet  you  could She  broke 

off,  as  if  the  idea  were  too  bitter  to  be  put  in  words. 

He  interrupted : 

"  Dearest,  don't  let's  try  to  unravel  the  past !     Be 


384  THE  LABYRINTH  OF  LIFE 

sorry  for  me  because  I  was  shattered  by  overwork  and 
overstrain,  and  so  failed  in  all  my  duties;  let  your  pity 
give  me  the  chance  I  ask  for!  And  in  taking  the 
chance,  I  promise  to  put  gently  by  anything  which  may 
have  puzzled  me  in  you — for  I  shall  remember  you 
made  yourself  suffer  in  your  girlhood  because  you 
thought  it  right  and  noble  to  suffer.  What's  heredity, 
what's  philosophy,  what's  vague  science  or  illusive  art, 
when  a  husband  and  wife  are  young  and  full  of  courage 
and  have  learned  to  know  each  other  at  last  ?  You 
tried  to  live  before  you  knew  what  life  was,  and  I  tried 
to  write  before  I  had  anything  to  say.  Without  sus- 
pecting it,  we  were  both  echoing  other  people's  thoughts 
and  methods.  So  you  carved  out  for  yourself  a  life 
that  wasn't  a  life,  and  I  gathered  an  easy  literary 
success  that  wasn't  worth  the  plucking.  Then,  when 
the  moment  came  to  readjust  ourselves,  we  wanted 
instead  to  readjust  each  other.  We've  found  our 
balance,  now,  in  suffering  silently  and  alone.  But  to 
keep  it,  we  must  hold  closely  together."  He  paused 
for  an  instant,  and  resumed:  "  Nicolls  told  you  about 
The  Labyrinth  of  Life.  The  story  seemed  hopelessly 
tragic  to  us  both  only  because  we  were  so  hopelessly 
tragic  ourselves,  without  knowing  it.  By  appealing 
to  the  logic  of  human  emotions  instead  of  the  logic  of 
scientific  laws,  I  saved  my  hero  and  heroine.  And  then 
I  saw  how  simple  it  would  have  been  to  save  ourselves. 
That  story  has  been  bound  up  in  our  lives  so  strangely ; 
it  was  a  prophecy  of  all  our  misfortunes.  And  now  its 
tone  has  evolved  to  a  better,  healthier  one,  I  can't  help 


THE  TEST  385 

hoping  against  hope  that  it  is  a  prophecy  again — but  of 
good  augury,  this  time." 

His  pressure  on  her  hand  had  tightened.  She  rose 
abruptly,  tearing  her  hand  free.  He  thought  he  had 
lost. 

"  Why  talk  more?  "  he  pleaded.  "  You  feel  it  is 
true!" 

She  lingered. 

"  My  road  seemed  so  straight  and  clear !  "  she  sighed. 
"  Why  do  you  try  to  turn  me  ?  " 

"  Because  there  was  no  time  to  lose.  Your  road  led 
clear  and  straight  to  the  maze  of  the  labyrinth's  centre; 
my  road  is  the  safe  and  open  one  to  Life !  " 

He  passed  his  arm  around  her  waist;  she  did  not 
attempt  resistance.  Her  breath  quickened  as  she  lay 
there  against  him,  passive  and  content;  and  after  a 
moment  he  kissed  her,  heedless  of  the  idlers  in  the 
square,  who,  however,  like  the  old  tower  guarding 
them,  had  witnessed  too  many  lovers'  partings  and 
meetings  to  heed  this  pair. 

As  Harding  had  said,  their  understanding  was  to 
come  in  silence:  where  the  abstractions  of  science  had 
failed,  the  voice  of  nature  had  convinced. 


THE  END. 


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Letchworth:  At  the  Arden  Press. 


A     000128908 


